when i was young, my father told me tales of indignation
like suffering was the best way to feel alive.
well, it didn’t take me long to realize that it was all a lie.
as righteous as the promised land was told to be,
i knew it wasn’t for me.

and he put on that white collar, one abandoned dream at a time
saying to my mother, “Honey, it’ll all be fine.”
so tell me why you spend your nights drowning your lungs with wine.
the way we pray is the way we die.

when i wasn’t quite old enough to understand,
my father took my hand
and said, “Soon you’ll be a man
and I hope you know where you stand
because I’d like to see you again in the promised land.”

and illusions fell where my soul forgot to sell,
praying that he wouldn’t send me to hell
but if he saw everything i’ve done
i know i wouldn’t be the only one
to die a Prodigal Son.

when i was young my father suffered and sold
every dream he could ever hold,
not because he was getting old,
but because he believed the lies they told.
they never called him a broken man,
but i found shattered pieces in his hands.