People learn from their mistakes—or so they should.

But do they really?

Your mistakes come in the form of margin calls, bills to be paid,
or some thug named Louie who visits,
when you’re not expecting.

Or do you?

Your penance? Loose change. Rattling in pockets.
Heavy enough to notice. Too light to break a window.

But forgiving—
Ah, well now,
that’s the real trick.

You have to realize Jack…

Forgiveness, It isn’t a gift for you.

It’s a key for them,
a ticket back from their own bleak exile,
a rope thrown down a well
where they sit, doing nothing but staring upward with empty hands,
drowning in the echoes of what they did.

Regret is a parasite, how cliché,
burrowing, gnawing,
eating a man from the inside out.

That parasite can be in many forms.
Mine is drink, women, smoke, whatever I choose.
It’s the only freedom I have.

The ones who truly see their sins
will reach, rebuild,
fill the cracks they left behind.
Those people make me sick.
They have it all figured out.
They’re not on my frequency.

So you compartmentalize. You lie, you bring everyone for a ride on your magic bus. Condemning them along with you.

This is your balance.
This is your grind.
Not some sermon, not some chant,
but the law of the damned:

Hold the grudge, and it burns you alive.
Let it go, and maybe, just maybe,
you get to sleep at night.
Unless, of course, you’ve already made peace with the burn.
Then to hell with it and to hell with you.