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.