Oh, good god. When I was all of 15 years old, I fancied myself a bit of a poetess. Sadly, I lacked any kind of reasonable self-restraint or shame. I would write poems about/to the dreamy boys I fancied - sometimes boys to whom I'd never said so much as a single word - and then I would give these poems to said boys. Not good poetry, mind you, not vomity rhyming garbage, just dorky, spooky crap. They were full of all the sorts of things precocious artgeeky 15-year old girls have going on what with the crazy hormones and whatnot... Precisely the sort of things which, I later realized, cause dreamy boys to run away, shrieking.