I keep calm by watching the jagged hills in green fields.
To her, the thunder I thrust into her chest almost seems real.
I am, giver of the saline drip to drum up a clean bill.
Yet she nods her head to morphine like she's never heard of free will.
it means nil. she's a dumb dummy. a drug junky.
I'd rather hop the fence at petting zoos and hug bunnies.
and I'll admit, I've been jaded on the daily.
I'm pissed that I can't smack sense… I hate it, frankly.
sick of saving her damn life, giving her pills to fade pain.
crazy that I have to beg my baby not to screw her life up before it takes shape.
I don't use brakes or pray on the ride back.
cuz if I stopped long enough to care on our way there, I might snap.
she's like "dad? I called…", and yeah… I'm damn proud,
only act mad when I look back and can tell that she's blacked out.
crackle on the mic, and I'm told that I am "off route."
like "no shit houston, it's my daughter in the bed... now back down."
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