He wrote with enthusiasm, for it was all he could do

Talent, he had little, this much was true

No ball to be thrown, no girl to be wooed

No test to be aced, there was not much he could do

But could he write, oh could he write

Of glorious lovers, and powerful spite.

He wrote of the ball that was thrown, how it soared through the sky

Into the arms of another, running so fast he felt he could fly

He wrote of the brilliant mind and his trusty black pen

They tore through the sheets and quizzes, like it was coming to an end

He wrote of the girl of his dreams, whom he so adamantly loved,

Of subtle soft kisses, like gifts from above

He wrote of the feelings and thoughts, bottled away

To be shared with no one, except himself and a rainy day.