Buck teeth and bright eyes
I was eight years old,
I spent my days out on the playground
all alone in the cold
right by the fence where I would watch traffic behind the monkey bars
and wonder how it'd be for me if I ran into the cars.
I never played with dolls
like any normal young girl would,
and I spent all my time imagining a life in the woods
Or a quiet death to ease those that claim I would be missed
Or even some type of existence not consistent with this.
Well eight years later things have changed:
Doctors have probed into my brain.
I wanna live work 9-5
and play my music on the side.
I had no choice but to feel wrong
It was an illness all along.
If how I feel is just a choice,
Then I'll choose progress over joy.
I'll choose progress over joy.
But health and hart are not a choice.