Point Blank

A panic strike with tactical precision.
I rush to judgment, an immediate decision.
The pit of your stomach, the pit of despair,
The feel of the phantom limb that's not there.

The helping hand you felt on the shoulder,
The crushing blow, rolls down like a boulder.
The looks that you throw and the faces you catch,
Your head and your heart find that they seldom match.

The he said, he she said the forth and the back,
It bends and won't break, but can and will crack.
Three fingers emerge from out of the water,
To show that but one way is all that should bother.