I think about things I have done to others.
The pain I caused, and the wrongs I condoned.
I remember the punch I delivered, and think that it should have been compassion I considered.
Would someone’s life be different if I were considerate?
Do the steps others take depend on choices I make or are we all bound by fate?
If I would have said, "Larry, you are my friend," then would the bullet in Larry’s head be in the pistol instead?
If I had known, I would have told John he wasn’t alone.
Now that I have seen their ends, I wish I could go back again.
But things aren’t that way, and I watched them both get laid.
Six feet under.
The coffin lids sounded like thunder.
I wish it wasn't over.