His Choice

Don't tell me it was me.
Don't say that it's my fault.
I didn't do anything.
I'm not the one at fault.

I didn't grab the gun.
I didn't use the knife.
I didn't shoot the bullet.
I didn't take his life.

All I did was say,
That he was not the one.
That I still loved him a lot.
But Sorry, I was done.

His arms were cut and scarred,
From months of using the knife.
The bullet was on the ground,
Along with the gun that stole his life.

He always had a choice.
He could have made it through.
He chose death instead,
Even though he knew.

His parents cried and blamed me.
They said I was responsible for his death.
They swore they'd always hate me,
Until they took their very last breath.

His friends glared at me,
With fire in their eyes.
They said he'd still be here,
If I would have listened to his cries.

Even some of my friends turned on me,
Saying I was the one to blame.
That I could have changed the outcome,
If I would have left everything the same.

He treated me so horribly
And all I did was run.
He should have thought about his decisions,
Before he loaded the silver gun.

He's the one that used the knife.
And the one who loaded the gun.
He's the one that shot the bullet,
When he decided he was done.

So don't blame me for his mistake.
Don't hate me for something I didn't do.
He's the one that shot the gun.
He, himself decided he was through.