Seventeen

By
Driving down deserted highways,
Blaring music to block out thought,
Going slowly, wasting time,
For there’s no rush to get home to the lonely house.
Dragged under by personal fault.
So hard to overcome these constant rejections.
There’s nothing wrong with you, is the mantra.
But I’ve never been one to believe.
These are the empty promises,
But never enough when you’re all alone.
As imperfections blot them out.
How much longer will this highway stretch?





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