not just obsessed Poet Rhyme

The plot writers

It was October and we were in a church
the white was reflecting off our shirts
stood next to him, it was the very first time 
I felt myself start to wish that he would be mine.
Or at that sleepover a couple of years before, we laid there and closed the door
it would be the first and last time for years, I’d accept 
the fate that has me now, left in love debt. 
But back then I was scared to say, that it felt right to there be laid 
now I know that I could’ve stayed but we were both so afraid, to prove them right with the words that they’d say. 
Then there was the class clown, wherever I’d go he’d be around.
Walked home together once or twice,
sat on the phone putting the world to rights. 
When I was asked I’d blush and deny, say that he was just some guy
one who I barely even knew, one who’s actions I had disapproved
of these three, who all knew me 
one feeling was truly key:
I swallowed my burning desire 
each time it was rising higher.
Everyone had sized me up so long ago 
I had to act like I was the last to know
it followed me right through to when I was eighteen, in my new home lived him, destined for screen.
With a face so beautiful and an everlasting charm, how could I continue to pull my own arm? 
So it was time to finally end the scene 
and now I reel from all that I’ve seen
with the good, the ill and the mean.
I have them to thank, this now I know
they wrote the plot 
of a completely different show.

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