The shot across the nation,
the pounding in your head,
the light and ditz sensation,
limbs light as lead.

The focus of the rebel,
the runway of the needy,
the escape of every label,
better off dead.

The burning force of throttle,
the coughing, shaking grimace,
Your satan-in-a-bottle,
despair's only penance.

If I look into the mirror,
and see the scars are healing,
I learn the more "right" it does,
the more it is revealing.