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.

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