I am from the old red rust and the open road
I am from teh skatard inspirationl books.
the sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks and the prickle from the rasberry bushes.
The soothing swing of the hamock and the creeking noise of rope rubbing against the old oak tree.
I am from the sunkin in chocolet cake and the soft, woven slippers, Lynn and Linda.
I am from the Rush Limbaugh club and the gosspel praising his name.
I am from the dawson and story branch.
Fried chicken black coffee and hush puppies.
From the fingur lost to the poker game the dignity lost to pressure, late night phone calls, long drives, and frantic screams.
Memories hidden under the bed safly tucked away from the rest of the world, discunected faided away, tears slice my checks as they fall to my lap wondering why I turn my back on where I'm from.