I may not believe in second chances;
those ghost-track rewinds, those doomed romances,
the lie that time can unbreak what it shatters,
that fate rewrites the parts that matter.
I walk with the wreckage exactly as is,
no edits, no mercy, no cosmic quiz.
The past is a blade that remembers its swing,
and every scar still knows its sting.
But redemption; that’s carved in a different bone,
a truth that grows in the dark, alone,
a vow you make when the world’s gone cold,
to rise from the wreck with a grip that holds.
Second chances feel like a rigged reprise,
a pretty excuse, a convenient disguise,
a wish that the universe might revise;
but redemption stares you dead in the eyes.
It’s the grind of grit in a gutted soul,
the slow rebuild from a shattered whole,
the fire you feed when you’ve lost control,
the oath you swear when you pay the toll.
I don’t trust clocks to turn back their hands,
or broken bridges to suddenly stand,
but I trust the ones who crawl through the sand
and claim their life with a bloodied demand.
Redemption isn’t granted; it’s taken in stride,
earned in the nights where you almost died,
forged in the moments you swallowed your pride
and chose to live on the other side.
So no, I don’t believe in second chances;
but I believe in the soul that advances,
in the grit that grows through the darkest stances,
and finds redemption
in the wreck it dances.