Pulling off the scab/Young Love Part 1

So Pamie has found a journal she wrote when she was fifteen, and is presenting entries with commentary of the rage of hormones that is being fifteen, perpetually crushing, and wrestling the pain to the page.  It's delightful, often hilarious, and you should read it.
 
It's great because it is so universal and specific at the same time.  She's a pro, and the over-wrought language of her young love was, most likely, a necessary part of the development of her craft and her person.  It's beautiful, beautiful stuff.
 
I can match her, phrase for embarrassing phrase, and so in the spirit of internet camaraderie and terrible memes, I will present the sonnets I wrote for...sigh...Jane.  All my poetry is already up on the web, and you can read ahead starting here (press the red ball to read earlier commentary). 
 
Boys develop later than girls, of course, and my emotional development was later than most, and so I really did not fall off the cliff over someone I actually interacted with until my junior year in college.  Let's, however, back up a bit to the safety of a crush over someone to whom I literally said two words ("Harvard Co-op", if you must know). 

A Rather Poor Love Sonnet Written ‘Midst a Typical Crush

See, even as I wrote the piece, I knew it was just another crush.
 
          I’d write a sonnet every day and so
          Wrench the sun to this page, if it would light
          Your cheeks in the ancient vernal glow
          That shivers me when you fill my empty sight.
 
Because, naturally, writing sonnets is what gets women hot. 
 
Perhaps it's a writer thing in which it's far safer to pour your feelings out on the page rather than actually talk to someone.
 
I do like the phrase "ancient vernal glow": in other words, "horniness".
 
          But you’re encased in the amber distance,
 
Who's encased here?  Certainly not this fine young coed who doesn't even know I exist.
 
          A frozen span that lets me neither speak
 
Ah, yes, me that's who.
 
          Nor know whether behind your bright laughter glance
          There’s a woman who’d understand these weak
          Words, or whether your soft spring-shine smile hides
          A void of thought, spirit, hope or passion.
 
Because this girl I'm lusting for is either capable of understanding, you know, English or is a vacuous zombie.  Those are all the options.  Yup.
 
          For love in all its forms will not abide
          Solely upon a body’s attraction.
 
No, it requires peanut-brittle as well.  Or something.
 
          You attract me deeply, but I must know
          That you contain a heart, a mind, a soul.
 
Did I go there?  I went there.  Little Mertseger was a pig.  Or just stupid. 
 
Ah, well, as you can see LM had a lot of growing to do, and it was going to get worse, much worse, before it got better.