My Car

Clenched teeth, nails digging

scratching skin to hide the rage.

Loud voices, head is spinning.

God someone please just turn the page

of this book that I want out of,

this book that is my own.

Where my dad is saying no.

Mom's excuse? I haven't grown.

I'm not ready to be free.

To be out and all alone.

I've got no money in my pockets.

That's why I'm stuck at home.

But one thing keeps me sane.

And no it's not a fat cigar.

It's my therapist, my savior.

It's this thing I call my car.

This poem is about: 
My family


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