17

It is November.
I am 17.
Searching for who I am,
I meander through life.
I drive my Ford truck
Down country roads
To get lost and unwind.
At home, a yellow Lab
Is my faithful shadow
And closest friend.
Autumn comes again,
Twelve years later.
I drive the same truck
Down familiar roads.
I stay at the same house,
With a different,
Yet familiar yellow dog,
And the same, yet somehow
Different parents from before.
I feel closer to realizing
Who I am meant to be,
But still striving
To arrive.
It is November.
I am still 17.

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