My thoughts are sharpened to sickly points
They turn, face inward, tear me apart
We all want to be heard
None of us want to hear
A million bare artists
All without audience
Roadsides carve my name upon a cross
A stark reminder this was a choice
We learn from pain
We make memories
We can repress
And lessons we can't
A tilt of wrists
A swerve, a miss
Another inch
And I become
A memory