by Kayla S., 14
There is no place that is home
But identified as a thing or a feeling
Home is not a place, but a sound
Like the sound of crushing leaves
On a windy afternoon
Or your hair flying everywhere due to the wind
Down the highway to explore something new
Blasting music through your headphones
So loud you can hear them without even wearing them
The feeling of pure joy meeting with one of your friends
Conversations full of nonsense
Or genuine laughing with your peers and other classmates
This is my home.
This is our home.
Red Bank, New Jersey
Bridge Ink 