Father, ship me back to the heaven’s factory
I am not well made,
my alter ego is a creep in the dark
my shell need a bit of fixing
my soul leaks and a drought is a comin’

father Jean speaks of a great plan for every life
but how can i trust the words of a man who
softly cries alone in a confessional?
I see, feel no plan
My drunk father drove his way to the heavens, and
took with him a young teen who was standing on the crosswalk
“There is no heaven for alcoholics and
there is no haven for your mother”, my aunt tells me.
My mother used barbiturates to smuggle my six year old self to heaven
my heart stopped for a while but in the end
she went without me.

Father, I’m not looking for a quick refund
I’ve got no oil to keep grime and rust away
I’m running empty
so please
ship me up above
ship me back anew