Annabel Lee Got Nothin On Me, Ms. Kayla L. Lucas
I was a late bloomer, I guess. The nerdy little lass who kept to herself all the way through middle school. And then, sixteen years old hit me like the worn end of an angry, old man’s walking stick. Breasts, amazing complexion, deep brown hair, and to-die-for hazel eyes. And that's when I put away my glasses, hid my Hemingway, and started using what God had suddenly given me.
I discovered almost immediately that, while boys may not understand Wordsworth, I certainly understood their Longfellow. Boys began to intrigue me far more than Keats. After all, the men I read about were dead, and even though Lord Byron's tales could make any little lady squeal with delight, only live men had the power to take that little lady squeal to an entirely new level. Frost, Poe, Eliot... they all touched my brain with such passion. But none had the ability to touch me, well, there.
And that's when I met Michael. Smart, blonde, blue-eyed. A Californian. And better yet, a poet. Instantly, we connected. He and I became best friends, the Sylvia and Ted of our time. We would sit in my truck for hours, reciting, creating, exploring. Poetry, I mean. Until that one time, the one time I leaned forward and, with all the might a Southern woman-to-be could muster, I laid one on him so hard and explosive, he might have had to adjust his pants.
It was in that moment in which I figured out that you don’t have to give up Shakespeare to give a man the shakes. A pair need only learn how to make poetry with their mouths
I discovered almost immediately that, while boys may not understand Wordsworth, I certainly understood their Longfellow. Boys began to intrigue me far more than Keats. After all, the men I read about were dead, and even though Lord Byron's tales could make any little lady squeal with delight, only live men had the power to take that little lady squeal to an entirely new level. Frost, Poe, Eliot... they all touched my brain with such passion. But none had the ability to touch me, well, there.
And that's when I met Michael. Smart, blonde, blue-eyed. A Californian. And better yet, a poet. Instantly, we connected. He and I became best friends, the Sylvia and Ted of our time. We would sit in my truck for hours, reciting, creating, exploring. Poetry, I mean. Until that one time, the one time I leaned forward and, with all the might a Southern woman-to-be could muster, I laid one on him so hard and explosive, he might have had to adjust his pants.
It was in that moment in which I figured out that you don’t have to give up Shakespeare to give a man the shakes. A pair need only learn how to make poetry with their mouths
This entry was posted by first kiss team, on
Monday, September 03, 2007.
