I inked my skin with your name,
As you swore you wouldn't play the game,
As good as you could get,
But there was someone who was better yet.
Spin the bottle,
Load up the gun,
And tell yourself it's only a bit of fun.
The future can't be real,
If the deal is not sealed,
A debt you will pay,
For playing this game.
Round and round,
It lands on you as you bow your head to the ground.
Pick up the gun,
It's no longer fun,
Death is calling,
You're slowly falling.
The shot was perfect,
Right through your skull,
As if It was worth it.
You fell to the floor,
I ran out of the door,
Never to return to our place we called "home".
It wasn't a game of roulette,
It was our series of events,
You killed yourself,
Due to the sadness that you felt.
So this is my spin on things,
I'll pour a glass and admit my sins,
Before I join in,
With your game of Russian roulette.
A few of my poems explain about this same story,
But this is a different view of it, for me anyway.