I have a friend, hes mostly made of pain.
He wakes up, drives to work and 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 that he had a sense,
Of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said thank you, please, but your flattery,
It is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor, youre blind, you see.
No beauty ever could have come from me
Im 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.
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 the car she kept.
Such is life, she often said.
With one day leading 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, he pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said "Officer, officer, youve got the wrong man.
No, no, Im a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you dont understand."
The cop said "No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful.
And no I cant just let you go.
And though your fathers name is known,
Your decisions now are yours alone.
Youre nothing but a stepping stone on a path
To debt, to loss, to shame."
The last few months Ive been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know the kind who buy everything in doubles.
Oh, 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/
They still do me. Im sick, lonely.
No laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like loves some kind of lottery.
Where you scratch and see whats underneath.
Just one cherry.
Ill play again, get lucky.
So now I hang out down by the train's depot.
No, I dont ride, I just sit and watch the people there.
They remind me of wind-up cars in motion.
They way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I wanna scream out that it all is nonsense.
Their lifes one track and cant they see its pointless?
But just then my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and suddenly.
Its clear to see, its not them, but me,
Whos lost my self-identity.
And 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 could hope to achieve.
And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me.
And everything Ive made is trite and cheap and a waste,
So I park my car down by the cathedral.
Where the 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 the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope theres some room still in the middle.
But when 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 shoes, start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
With my broken heart and my absent god
And I have no faith but its all I want,
To be loved,
In my soul, in my soul.