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Waste of Paint – Bright Eyes

January 16, 2008

Waste Of Paint

Bright Eyes

I have a friend, he is mostly made of pain.
And 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’re blind.
You see,no beauty could have come from me.
I’m a waste of breath,of space,of time.”

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied
and she 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 the cars she kept.
“And 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! You got the wrong man.
No, no, I’m a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you don’t understand!”
The cop said, “No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful.
And no, I can’t just let you go.
And though your father’s name is known,
your decisions now are yours alone.
You 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 who buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
And 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’s some kind of lottery,
where you scratch and see what’s underneath.
It’s “Sorry”, just one cherry, or “Play Again.”
Get lucky.

So I’ve been hanging out down by the train’s depot.
No, I don’t ride. I just sit and watch the people there.
And 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 all is nonsense.
All your lives one track, can’t they see it’s pointless?
But just then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and suddenly
it’s clear to see it’s 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 in me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap and a waste of paint,
of tape, of time.

So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was 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 there’s some room still 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 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’s all I want,
to be loved.

And believe,
in my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.

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One comment

  1. I knew this topic would come up sooner or later ! I heard people who say Bright Eyes are wieners keep a stack of there albums under there bed like they would a stack of pornos !!!! haha !

    -gilbert c



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