A full tank of gas,
ambiguous highway sliding past perspectives
the red needle climbs the numbers
flying seventy, seventy-five, eighty miles per hour
with no destination.
The lines melt into each other:
a piece of art that can only be experienced
when you pay attention to the little things.
Six ounces of pure sugar dance through my veins
moving my limbs to the beat
from the one speaker blasting noise through my ears
the other silent, morose, apathetic
incapable of providing pleasant memory association--
words that inspire feelings of more than self-loathing
as I utilize my voice to its full abilities
using each syllable as a vendetta against the idea of control
relying on my religion of rebellion
depending simply on my own hands to provide direction.
Author notes
Something I wrote today after wanting to escape from my own emotions. I took a drive and I felt everything coming together. Enjoy 
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