Waste of Paint

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 senseof color and composition so magnificent.And he said "Thank you, pleasebut your flatteryis truly notbecoming me.Your eyes are poor.You're blind.You see,no beauty could have come from me.I'm a wasteof 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 liedand 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 housewith the cars she kept."And such is life," she often said.With one day leadingto the next,you get a little closer to your death,which was fine with her.She never got upsetand with all the days she may have left,she would never cleananother messor fold his shirtsor look her best.She was freeto wasteawayalone.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 stoneon a pathto 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 thankfulthat someone actually receives the prize that was promisedby 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 seewhat'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 life's one track,can't they see it's pointless?But just then, my kneesgive under me.My head feels weakand suddenlyit's clear to seeit's not them but me,who has lost my self-identity.As I hide behindthese books I read,while scribblingmy poetry,like art could save a wretch like me,with some ideal ideologythat no one could hope to achieve.And I am never real;it is just a sketch in me.And everything I made is triteand cheapand a wasteof 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 shoestart walking off.And try to just keep moving on,with my broken heartand my absent Godand I have no faithbut it's all I want,to be loved.And believe,in my soul.In my soul.In my soul.In my soul.