Tony johnson

I’m seventeen, stuck between school and a job that pays a little more than minimum wage. Wake up early, drag through classes I don’t care about, then head straight to work till it’s dark. It ain’t much, but it keeps gas in the truck and strings on my guitar. Most nights I’m dead tired, but I still play. ’Cause when I’m picking that guitar, I forget about everything — the noise, the rules, the people telling me what to do. Music’s the only thing that feels like it’s mine. Maybe I ain’t meant for college or some fancy job. Maybe I’m just meant to play, sing, and find my way out one song at ...