In love again (or when love meets Romanticism)

When certain feeling such as the one today, I fell the impotence to write. Keats would probably done it better and in ten minutes. Ten to eleven and she is at Latin I. "Ya ven, cómo los de Letras Inglesas no son pendejos!". The teacher was fine but that girl sitting two seats at my right could not even let me think. It has been a long time since the day I first feel the beating of the heart in the chest like the stroke of a ball. It was the time I read Mr. Flores. The Mexican Romantic. Her name was Awful. Now the little girl whose name fills the title of a book that I like but actually hate the writer. Mr. Fuentes, thanks for the second person. Today while I relentlessly fought against Mr. Grammar, with my mate next to me mocking, and Subordinate Adverb Clause of Reason stabbing me, I could not even think properly. I thought about that poem by Poe. "Thou wouldst be loved...".
Yes I have felt it again. Like the mate next to me said one day: "The kind of woman that does not let you think(or feed Wes Frankenstein)". Today I have felt the same when I wrote stupid and worthless letters to Wendy Candas. But anyway, even if she is or if she is not there, even the Newest one, I would return to Keats in the night, to "Echoes" by Peón y Contreras in the night. The starry night.