Training Wheels

(Soft, rhythmic finger-snaps. A jazzy, muted guitar riff begins—slightly playful, slightly mocking.)

(Ooh, ooh-ooh...)

You’re talking big like you’re the man of the hour

But you still wilt under a little bit of April shower

I’m checking the time, you’re checking your hair in the spoon

You’re crying ‘bout a paper cut while I’m moving the moon.

It’s cute how you think that your temper is a "complex soul"

When really you’re just a kid who lost remote control.

And I’d offer you a hand, I really would

But I’m not a playground monitor, babe, it’s understood

That you’re looking for a mother, or a saint, or a fan

And I’m just a woman with a much better plan.

(The beat fills out—think a thick, "bouncy" bassline and crisp claps)

Go put your training wheels back on, sweetheart

You’re trying to finish a race you don't know how to start

You want the crown but you can't even tie your own shoes

I’m bored of the tantrums, I’ve got nothing to lose.

Yeah, you’re a big boy now, or so you like to say

But you’re just a "Manchild" getting in my way.

I said I needed space, you thought I meant a galaxy

I meant a room without your ego and your jealousy

You’re weaponizing silence like it’s some kind of tool

But darling, even silence has to go to school.

You’re a vintage car with no engine inside

Just a lot of shiny chrome and nowhere to ride.

(Music drops to just a bass pulse and a dry, close-mic'ed vocal)

Is it heavy?

Holding up that fragile little pride?

Is it lonely?

Knowing that there’s nothing much inside?

(Wait, did you catch that? Or was it too fast for you?)

Go put your training wheels back on, sweetheart

You’re trying to finish a race you don't know how to start

You want the crown but you can't even tie your own shoes

I’m bored of the tantrums, I’ve got nothing to lose.

(Training wheels... spinning in the driveway)

Maybe call me when you’ve grown an inch or two.

Actually... don’t.

(A final, cheeky guitar strum)

(Giggles)

Click.