I also wrote this for a poetry assignment, it's a specific kind of poem that's structured in a specific kind of way. I totally forget what though. James Dean is probably my all time favorite actor.
Little Bastard’s Last Ride:
California State Highway 46 streaks eastward from the city of Paso Robles, leaving behind the last remnant of city. Windblown barns and oddly beautiful desert is the only view for miles, for most this is temporary. Most travel east through Cholame feeling a slight sense of adventure as the highway parts the powerful Temblor Mountains which have a reputation for being the epicenter of earthquakes past. Soon the road splits, both ways lead back to civilization, both lead back to the friendly out of the way towns found by more tourists than it seems possible. He was just like the rest of them, heading toward Bakersfield on the same highway he had been on for hours, he saw the same sights and had the same urge to get back into town. When another car heading toward him made a simple turn onto the 41, a shockwave would be sent; picked up on by every youth in every country around the world. He was not like them. On a hot day in the middle of nowhere, a few miles outside his destination, James Dean became a casualty, a cautionary tale and an icon. He was not like them.
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