Late night drives,

With no texts coming in to

Ask if I was dead or alive.

No worried phone calls,

Or dead cell phones.

Just my friends and

The warm orange light bulbs

Flickering every inch we go

Down 75th St.

 

Wind is blowing through

The locks of my forbidden head.

Thinking dark thoughts of;

Anxious beings.

No cope or hope

But riveting tears of mope.

 

Moving out of

The hell of a mother,

With a 24/7 empty stomach,

Not being fed with love;

Mom please.

 

I’m moving out to

Live on my own,

My father's help

Every inch I go.

Independence struggles

With 17 years old.

Only me to uplift,

Who I once may have been.