Posted in dreams, poetry

The Drive Home

The Drive Home  Windows down in the summertime and my hair is raping my face, stuck to my tinted Chapstick, catching streaks of light as it rages in freedom’s right.   Old school Greenday comes on the radio. I listen to the guitar chords, the strumming, ascertaining whether or not I can play it. Am I good enough?  I think about how the volume is so loud I’d never be able to hold a conversation in the car, realize maybe I don’t want to, that I like this, just me, my blushed cheeks and dreams of becoming a rock star.   —Leanne Rebecca

Soak up the sunshine. My only advice for the moment.




Poetry and music.

3 thoughts on “The Drive Home

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