Fragile

A Pervert and A Poet.

Tuesday, 10:00 a.m. Classroom.

Jack Ernest sat on his desk. The words of the Math teacher, an elderly woman who had been teaching within the school for over twenty years, was lost forever within the void that were Jack's ears. Nothing could get inside his head, but he knew that this was entirely his fault, and not that of the teacher's. He had never considered any subject-or teacher, for that matter-to be a bore, but this time, the urge to write on his notebook devoured his attention. And so, upon arriving at the decision to totally ignore whatever was going on in class, he took out the notebook, and began to write.

He was tired of writing those one liners on the pages of his notebook. "Sure, those lines were pretty deep, but eh", was what he thought of those lines. As beautiful and deep their meanings may be, all he could see was a waste of space. Typical pessimistic Jack Ernest. The feelings of yesterday served as his inspiration for his writing.

It is getting harder for me, and more painful. After all, this was not normal. It is very easy to talk to her in person, but every time I do that...it reminds me of just how far away I am from her. What can I do? In fact, I am a mere student, and definitely not a very diligent one. My efforts of trying to reach her through my writing is definitely nothing but laughable...is there any way to label the desires of an adolescent boy such as I? And yet...

And yet I could not bring myself to turn my gaze towards the girls my age. Before, way further than a dozen yesterdays, there were many a time when I found myself attracted to some of my classmates, but then again, that was just attraction, and that was that. My feelings for those girls never did surpass what I felt towards that woman, the woman five years my senior. Yes, that is no lie. I have fallen for a woman five years older than me. Worse yet, that woman is my History teacher in school. Such is the cruelty of fate, and this world...

I could not help it. I really could not, for the reason I find girls my age not attractive was because I find them to be rather shallow, but I do not mean any offense or malice towards those who belong to the category of 'girls my age'. Shallow, in the way that...how do I properly explain it? It was as if they were books that remained open for everyone to see, books that contained nothing but mediocre stories, stories that I am not interested in-at all-at reading.

She, however, is an enigma to me. I do not know much about her, all I know is that she is the object of my affection. "How disgusting", I am certain she would say, right to my face. She has this certain type of intelligence with her, and I am one who finds beauty in intelligence. Her intelligence was not academic intelligence, or so that is how I would put it. I find her intelligent in the sense that she has the eyes of someone who understood the working of the world, eyes full of wisdom. Eyes that I wish I had courage to stare at for a long, long time, but alas, I get flustered much too quick.

I loved her. Or, do I even have the right to love her? Compared to her I am just a shadow that one sees on the corner of their eyes, and she was the centerpiece. I loved her. Did I say that before? Perhaps I did, but I could not stress it out enough. I want to say it to her, right now, personally, right to her face. I am prepared for the sting on my cheek as I endure one quick, hard slap across my face. I am prepared for the embarrassment, the humiliation that I will possibly-probably-suffer from my classmates and other fellow students. I am prepared to drown the world with my sorrow as I engulf all things that exist within the ocean of my tears. Even if I am rejected, I am prepared to hear her severely reprimand me for my foolish act with her soft, but now sharp and strong voice. And finally, I am prepared to carry home with me my now shattered heart. As she walks away from me, away from the ground in which we both stood facing each other, I will pick up the fragments of my heart, and try to fix it through God knows how.

As I will arrive home, I will lay on my bed, gaze at the seemingly endless night sky, and count whatever stars trapped within that darkness. I will look at the sad, lonely moon, for I am its only company. As I cry and cry myself to sleep, will long to be one with the night sky, so that in the comfort of its shadows I may find rest eternal. Why am I willing to go through all this? The answer was simple.

I love her.

Jack looked at his composition. It was one filled with sadness, paragraphs filled with unhappy endings and the regrets that came after. He was tired of this sadness, for he feared that if he continues to feel that certain emotion, he will be addicted to that sadness, accept to befriend it.

"Man, I need a little bit of humor in my life, huh...", Jack trailed off, quite loudly. The heads of his classmates turned towards him, and his face flushed as he realized that they were all giggling by what they had just heard. It was not even a funny joke or statement. Jack struggled to ignore the giggles, as he turned over to a new page within his notebook. He eyes the top portion of the page, and wrote a title.

Perverted Poems, for Perverted Teens.

It was as if a light bulb had been invented, and turned on right away within the corners of Jack's mind. This page was going to be the page that will at least, even just for a tiny bit, lessen his stress, and most of all his sadness. Jack smirked, and thought about lewd, perverted things, and set them all into writing.

My Bed.

Where art thou, oh youth of innocence lost,

Innocence that came, with a terrible cost.

Where art thou, oh youth of innocence I miss,

Is it hidden in my bed? Ah, my sheets are full of...jizz.

Jack silently laughed to himself at the poem about m**********n that he had just made.

"Well, I guess this will be my masturpiece", Jack jokingly said to himself, as he decided to write another poem about touching one's self.

Caught.

Fappity, fappity, fappity, fap.

Someone peeks through the door-I am caught-crap!

Shit, I am not at home, I am in school.

Underneath my chair, is a swimming pool.

Jack held back the urge to guffaw out loud to his other perverse creation. The "fun" he was having immediately ended as he thought of how Miss Kate Summers would see him if she, by chance, or ill luck, would be given the opportunity to somehow take his notebook. He shook his head to clear those thoughts away. Jack then wrote one final line on the bottom-most part of the notebook, on the same page as the X-rated poetry.

Math class will end, but my perversion will not.