For... (A poem composed by my 15 year old self)

Before this poem is published online I'll just give a short introduction of it's history.
I wrote this when I was 15 years old. I was immature, naïve and ridiculously, foolishly in love.
So feel free to enjoy it or hate, I'm not really bothered. I just thought I'd share the hilarious writing of a headstrong teenage girl around the time she first decided she wanted to be a writer.


I thought that feeling was to hold.
That's what we're all taught.
To grasp and to touch,
that's feeling, I thought.


But this weird thing inside me,
can't be held or be seen.
So I guess I'm not feeling
if that's what feeling does mean.


It's like chocolate and smiles
and all kinds of joy
this stuff in my head
just because of one boy.


So, if it's not feeling
then what can it be?
This warm, funny thing
that is taking over me.


I looked for an answer;
one word was enough
That this isn't just feeling
this is what they call love.