When I was five I drew my mom a picture,
I brought it to her room so she could see
She said it was the neatest bird the sky had ever seen,
I said mom that's not a bird at all, its me.

And she said hun, what are these things?
Are the arms or feathered wings?
Then she said it was good, but she said it cause she should.
She never understood.

In my mind there is a picture, of a little crayon girl
With a crayon house, and a crayon family.
In my little crayon picture of my giant crayon world
You have no doubt, that crayon girl was me,
I wanted out, out, out of my head and onto paper.
Out, out, out of my head.

In college I enrolled in painting classes,
My teacher said my work was "avant-garde",
When I asked him what that meant, he struggled for the words,
And you know its never good when they think that hard.

And he said well, this all looks nice
I'm just not sure I would look twice,
Then he gave me an A, well for effort anyway,
And I thought well okay.

In my mind there is a painting of an oil woman's work,
With an oil way and an oil subtlety,
In my abstract painting, everything makes sense, in multi-hue tratic harmony.
And I wanted out, out, out of my head, and on to canvas.
Out, out, out of my head.

And now I'm in a world of starving artist,
I'm losing weight and trading hope for spite,
I recall my mother warning me that paint won't pay the bills,
And you know it really sucks when your mom is right.

Because not one piece has sold, and the excuses are getting old,
Think I should throw it all away, toss the crayons, oil, and clay
Cause so far what good are they?
Its what everyone seems to say.

In my mind there is a story, of an artist carved from stone,
Working for whatever fortune brings,
Hey mom you know that story, of that little crayon girl? When I was five I gave that girl her wings.
Now she's flying out, out, out of my head, and shes not listening.
Out, out, out off my head, no she can't hear you.

Out, out, out of my head.
Out of my head.
Fly girl, doesn't matter what they say.