I have a friend, he is made mostly of pain. He
wakes up, drives to work, and then straight back
home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out
of paper. I thought it was beautiful, I put it on
a record cover. And I tried to tell him he had a
sense of color and composition so magnificent. And
he said "Thank you, please but your flattery
is truly not becoming me. Your eyes are poor. You
are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from
me. I am a waste of breath, of space, of
time." I knew a woman, she was dignified and
true. Her love for her man was one of her many
virtues. Until one day, she found out that he had
lied and decided the rest of her life, from that
point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for
everything that had happened. And she was anxious
for all that would come next. But then she wept.
What did you expect? In that big, old house with
all those cars she kept. "Oh!" and
"such is life," she often said. With one
day leading her to the next, you get a little
closer to your death, which was fine with her. She
never got upset and with all the days she may have
left, she would never clean another mess or fold
his shirts or look her best. She was free to waste
away alone. Last night, my brother he got drunk
and drove. And this cop pulled him off to the side
of the road. And he said, "Officer! Officer!
You have got the wrong man. No, no, I'm a student
of medicine, the son of a banker, you don't
understand!" The cop said, "No one got
hurt, you should be thankful. And you
carelessness, it is something awful. And no, I
can't just let you go. And though your father's
name is known, your decisions are yours alone. You
[ Find more Lyrics at www.mp3lyrics.org/ym2 ]
are nothing but a stepping stone on a path to
debt, to loss, to shame." The last few months
I have been living with this couple. Yeah, you
know, the kind that buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle. I love their
love and I am thankful that someone actually
receives the prize that was promised by all those
fairy tales that drugged us. And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually? Like Love is
some kind of lottery, where you can scratch and
see what is underneath. It's "Sorry",
just one cherry, "Play Again." Get
lucky. So I have been hanging out down by the
train's depot. No, I don't ride. I just sit and
watch the people there. They remind me of wind up
cars in motion. The way they spin and turn and
jockey for positions. And I want to scream out
that it is all nonsense. And that their lives are
one track, and can't they see how it is all
pointless? But then, my knees give under me. My
head feels weak and suddenly it is clear to see
that it is not them but me, who has lost my
self-identity. As I hide behind these books I
read, while scribbling my poetry, like art could
save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology
that no one can hope to achieve. And I am never
real; it is just a sketch of me. And everything I
have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of
tape, of time. Sometimes I park my car down my the
cathedral, where floodlights point up at the
steeples. Choir practice is filling up with
people. I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle. When voices
blend they sound like angels. I hope there is
still some room left in the middle. But when I
lift my voice up now to reach them. The range is
too high, way up in heaven. So I hold my tongue,
forget the song, tie my shoe and start walking
off. And try to just keep moving on, with my
broken heart and my absent God and I have no faith
but it is all I want, to be loved and believe in
my soul, in my soul... |
