PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My Teachers name was Helen Bell.

She was a dyed blonde with a whoa! figure,

a mature forty something bombshell.



There was I.

An innocent speck of youth.

Hardly shaved let alone after shaved.

There was a quietness about her,

it was so disturbing, loud to my ear.



But a crush is a crush.

Every time we were in the same room,

I felt I could remember something

that had not happened.



I always had dirty thoughts,

especially when I looked at her fake tan legs.

She smelt so good as well,

her perfume would envelope me,

I could only imagine its name

"they were meant to live, not to last"



Ah but such is life,

and Helen Bell she left ,

my thoughts no more impure.

For teenage love"s not terminal

I found myself a cure.



Good morning class,

my name is Miss Taylor.