conor-oberst - Hello Poetry

It was in the March of the winter I turned seventeen that I bought those pills I thought I would need. And I wrote a letter to my family. Said, "It's not your fault and you've been good to me. Just lately I've been feeling like I don't belong; like the ground's not mine to walk upon." And I've heard that music echo through the house where my grandmother drank by herself. And I sat watching a flower as it was withering. I was embarrassed by its honesty. So I'd prefer to be remembered as a smiling face, not this ******* wreck that's taken its place. So please forgive what I have done. No, you can't stay mad at the setting sun, because we all get tired, I mean eventually. There is nothing left to do but sleep. But spring came bearing sunlight; those persuasive rays. So I gave myself a few more days. My salvation, it came quite suddenly when Justin spoke very plainly. He said, "Of course, its your decision, but just so you know, if you decide to leave, I soon will follow." I wrote this for a baby that has yet to be born. My brother's first child. I hope that womb's not too warm, because it's cold out here and it'll be quite a shock to breathe this air, to discover loss. So I'd like to make some changes before you arrive, so when your new eyes meet mine they'll see no lies. Just love. I will be pure. I know I will be pure. Like snow. Like gold.

0

May 20, 2014

May 20, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC

No Lies, Just Love

It was in the March of the winter I turned seventeen that I bought those pills I thought I would need. And I wrote a letter to my family. Said, "It's not your fault and you've been good to me. Just lately I've been feeling like I don't belong; like the ground's not mine to walk upon." And I've heard that music echo through the house where my grandmother drank by herself. And I sat watching a flower as it was withering. I was embarrassed by its honesty. So I'd prefer to be remembered as a smiling face, not this ******* wreck that's taken its place. So please forgive what I have done. No, you can't stay mad at the setting sun, because we all get tired, I mean eventually. There is nothing left to do but sleep. But spring came bearing sunlight; those persuasive rays. So I gave myself a few more days. My salvation, it came quite suddenly when Justin spoke very plainly. He said, "Of course, its your decision, but just so you know, if you decide to leave, I soon will follow." I wrote this for a baby that has yet to be born. My brother's first child. I hope that womb's not too warm, because it's cold out here and it'll be quite a shock to breathe this air, to discover loss. So I'd like to make some changes before you arrive, so when your new eyes meet mine they'll see no lies. Just love. I will be pure. I know I will be pure. Like snow. Like gold.

40

Well morning came and it dressed the sky in a lovely yellow gown. Now the shops, they are all opening in that narrow hallway of downtown; filled with people who are shopping for their lovers and their friends so they won't ever be lonely again. Well, a forrest bench becomes backyards, like songs are born from sound. And the apple fell and it taught us all that we are chained here to the ground. So here we go, but there ain't no escape. Yeah, these streets are just dead ends so I will never be happy again. Well it seems you too see a painful blue when you stare at the sky. You could never understand the motion of a hand waving you goodbye. "Bye bye." But as the story goes, or it is often told, a new day will arise and all the dance halls will be full of skeletons. They are coming back to life and on a grassy hill. The lion will lay down with the lamb and I won't ever be lonely again. But until that time I think had better find some disbelief to suspend, because I don't want to feel like this again.

0

Apr 12, 2013

Apr 12, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC

I Won't Ever Be Happy Again

Well morning came and it dressed the sky in a lovely yellow gown. Now the shops, they are all opening in that narrow hallway of downtown; filled with people who are shopping for their lovers and their friends so they won't ever be lonely again. Well, a forrest bench becomes backyards, like songs are born from sound. And the apple fell and it taught us all that we are chained here to the ground. So here we go, but there ain't no escape. Yeah, these streets are just dead ends so I will never be happy again. Well it seems you too see a painful blue when you stare at the sky. You could never understand the motion of a hand waving you goodbye. "Bye bye." But as the story goes, or it is often told, a new day will arise and all the dance halls will be full of skeletons. They are coming back to life and on a grassy hill. The lion will lay down with the lamb and I won't ever be lonely again. But until that time I think had better find some disbelief to suspend, because I don't want to feel like this again.

28

I met you through a common friend in the attic of my parents' house, and though I didn't know it then, I soon was finding out; oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place. Each time a faucet opens words are spoken. The water runs away and I hear your name. No, nothing has changed. There was a book I read and loved; the story of a ship who sailed around the world and found that nothing else exists beyond his own two sails and wooden shell and what is held within. All else is sure to pass. We clutch and grasp and debate what's truly permanent. But when the wind starts to shift, well, there's no argument. Now I sing and drink and sleep on floors and try hard not to be annoyed by all these people worrying about me. So when I'm suffocating through some awful drive, you occasionally cross my mind. It's my hidden hope that you are still among them. Well are you? Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place. Each time a curtain opens, sunlight pours in. A lifetime melts away and we share a name on some picturesque grave.

0

Jan 15, 2013

Jan 15, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC

Oh, You Are the Roots That Sleep Beneath My Feet and Hold the Earth In Place

I met you through a common friend in the attic of my parents' house, and though I didn't know it then, I soon was finding out; oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place. Each time a faucet opens words are spoken. The water runs away and I hear your name. No, nothing has changed. There was a book I read and loved; the story of a ship who sailed around the world and found that nothing else exists beyond his own two sails and wooden shell and what is held within. All else is sure to pass. We clutch and grasp and debate what's truly permanent. But when the wind starts to shift, well, there's no argument. Now I sing and drink and sleep on floors and try hard not to be annoyed by all these people worrying about me. So when I'm suffocating through some awful drive, you occasionally cross my mind. It's my hidden hope that you are still among them. Well are you? Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place. Each time a curtain opens, sunlight pours in. A lifetime melts away and we share a name on some picturesque grave.

36

There's a voice on the phone telling what had happened. Some kind of confusion, more like a disaster. And it wondered how you were left unaffected, but you had no knowledge. No, the chemicals covered you. So a jury was formed as more liquor was poured. No need for conviction; they're not thirsty for justice. But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head. I found out I was guilty. I found out I was guilty. But I won't be around for the sentencing 'cause I'm leaving on the next airplane. And though I know that my actions are impossible to justify, they seem adequate to fill up my time. But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else, well then maybe I could take your advice and I wouldn't act like such an ******* all the time. There's a film on the wall that makes the people look small who are sitting beside it, all consumed in the drama. They must return to their lives once the hero has died. They will drive to the office, stopping somewhere for coffee; where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene dispensing their wisdom; Oh dear amateur orators. They will detail their pain in some standard refrain. They will recite their sadness like it's some kind of contest. Well if it is I think i'm winning it, all beaming with confidence as I make my final lap. The gold metal gleams, so hang it around my neck. 'Cause I am deserving it: the champion of idiots. But a kid carries his Walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha. I know a girl who cries when she practices violin, 'cause each note stands so pure it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now to me, everything else, it just sounds like a lie.

0

Sep 25, 2012

Sep 25, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC

Going for the Gold

There's a voice on the phone telling what had happened. Some kind of confusion, more like a disaster. And it wondered how you were left unaffected, but you had no knowledge. No, the chemicals covered you. So a jury was formed as more liquor was poured. No need for conviction; they're not thirsty for justice. But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head. I found out I was guilty. I found out I was guilty. But I won't be around for the sentencing 'cause I'm leaving on the next airplane. And though I know that my actions are impossible to justify, they seem adequate to fill up my time. But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else, well then maybe I could take your advice and I wouldn't act like such an ******* all the time. There's a film on the wall that makes the people look small who are sitting beside it, all consumed in the drama. They must return to their lives once the hero has died. They will drive to the office, stopping somewhere for coffee; where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene dispensing their wisdom; Oh dear amateur orators. They will detail their pain in some standard refrain. They will recite their sadness like it's some kind of contest. Well if it is I think i'm winning it, all beaming with confidence as I make my final lap. The gold metal gleams, so hang it around my neck. 'Cause I am deserving it: the champion of idiots. But a kid carries his Walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha. I know a girl who cries when she practices violin, 'cause each note stands so pure it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now to me, everything else, it just sounds like a lie.

47

Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay in the grass? Don't you want that? Don't you want that? Don't you want that? Isn't the sun even going to try to find a hole in the clouds? Isn't the sun even going to try to find a hold in the clouds? Isn't it even gonna try? Isn't it even gonna try to find a hole in the clouds? Isn't it even gonna try? Why won't it try, then? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay so low in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay in the grass? Don't you want to be found? Don't you want to be found? I thought that you wanted that.

0

Sep 18, 2012

Sep 18, 2012 at 5:09 PM UTC

The Joy In Discovery

Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay in the grass? Don't you want that? Don't you want that? Don't you want that? Isn't the sun even going to try to find a hole in the clouds? Isn't the sun even going to try to find a hold in the clouds? Isn't it even gonna try? Isn't it even gonna try to find a hole in the clouds? Isn't it even gonna try? Why won't it try, then? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay so low in the grass? Why do you lay there? Don't you want to be found? Why do you lay in the grass? Why do you lay in the grass? Don't you want to be found? Don't you want to be found? I thought that you wanted that.

29

My brother finds comfort in calculators. He assigns every number a name. He believes that they add up to certainty and he is upset with fractions that remain. So I examine these maps with my eyes, and at best I can trace with my finger all the way to that town where she went in an attempt to forget the cracks and the lines of my face. So Jetsabel cleaned out the closets for me and she piled up the boxes in the hall. Tomorrow when she wakes she'll come take them away and they'll never haunt me again; but it is still hard to sleep with the moon's heavy beams. I run barefoot to the backyard, just to freeze in my place by the rod iron gate; too afraid and ashamed to advance. Today I walked through the snow and found a field of headstones. They were in rows like the weeks in calendars where each box is a day you can never escape without pills or the poison of sleep. These memories leak from these faucets that weep. Hot tears splash against the shower floor and I stand in the steam as if inside a dream-- I can see her again by the sink. From behind the bathroom mirror she pulls a thermometer and places it under my tongue. She said, "You're as pale as a sheet. You look awful, my sweet. Lay down and wait for the sun." So I stayed in that bed. She brought me water and read each night from a volume out loud. She whispered soft poetry. Her favorite was Anabel Lee. And those words, like these drugs, comforted me. But the clocks kept waving their hands and she couldn't understand why temperature would never drop. And though she promised with tears that she would always be here, I heard truth like the sounding sea. I said, "My Arienette, how soon you forget this house will never be your home, and you will leave in the fall when the trees become graves and their colors lie dead in the grass." Gold and green torture me like the lies I believe too easily. Oh my Jetsabel, look at this hell that I have made. If you want, maybe drop by sometime-- put some flowers on my grave so that I will look beautiful in my silent sepulchre. Yeah, that's fine. Throw some dresses away. I don't want anything of hers. For the moon never shines and the stars never rise without bringing me dreams, haunted by the ghosts of those bright eyes.

0

Sep 18, 2012

Sep 18, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC

Jetsabel Removes the Undesireables

My brother finds comfort in calculators. He assigns every number a name. He believes that they add up to certainty and he is upset with fractions that remain. So I examine these maps with my eyes, and at best I can trace with my finger all the way to that town where she went in an attempt to forget the cracks and the lines of my face. So Jetsabel cleaned out the closets for me and she piled up the boxes in the hall. Tomorrow when she wakes she'll come take them away and they'll never haunt me again; but it is still hard to sleep with the moon's heavy beams. I run barefoot to the backyard, just to freeze in my place by the rod iron gate; too afraid and ashamed to advance. Today I walked through the snow and found a field of headstones. They were in rows like the weeks in calendars where each box is a day you can never escape without pills or the poison of sleep. These memories leak from these faucets that weep. Hot tears splash against the shower floor and I stand in the steam as if inside a dream-- I can see her again by the sink. From behind the bathroom mirror she pulls a thermometer and places it under my tongue. She said, "You're as pale as a sheet. You look awful, my sweet. Lay down and wait for the sun." So I stayed in that bed. She brought me water and read each night from a volume out loud. She whispered soft poetry. Her favorite was Anabel Lee. And those words, like these drugs, comforted me. But the clocks kept waving their hands and she couldn't understand why temperature would never drop. And though she promised with tears that she would always be here, I heard truth like the sounding sea. I said, "My Arienette, how soon you forget this house will never be your home, and you will leave in the fall when the trees become graves and their colors lie dead in the grass." Gold and green torture me like the lies I believe too easily. Oh my Jetsabel, look at this hell that I have made. If you want, maybe drop by sometime-- put some flowers on my grave so that I will look beautiful in my silent sepulchre. Yeah, that's fine. Throw some dresses away. I don't want anything of hers. For the moon never shines and the stars never rise without bringing me dreams, haunted by the ghosts of those bright eyes.

34

There's a middle aged woman; she's dragging her feet. She carries baskets of clothes to the laundromat while the Mexican children kick rocks into the street; and they laugh in a language I don't understand, but I love them. Why do I love them? So the neighborhood is dimming as I smoke on the porch and watch the people as they pass, enclosed by their cars; on their faces just anger or disappointment. I start wishing there was something I could offer them. A consolation, what could I offer them? And they are sad in their suburbs; robots water their lawn and everything they touch gets dusted spotless, and so they start to believe they've not touched anything at all and the cars in the driveway only multiply. They are lost in their houses. I have heard them sing in the shower, making speeches to their sister on the telephone saying, "You come home. Woman, you come here." Don't stay so far away from me. This weather has me wanting love more tangible. Something I can hold 'cause it's getting cold. I say, "Hold up our fists to the flame in the sky. to block out the light that's reaching for our eyes." 'Cause it... 'cause it would blind us. Yeah, it will blind us. Well, I've locked my actions in the grooves of routine. So I may never be free of this apathy, but I wait for a letter that is coming for me. She sends me pictures of the ocean in an envelope so there is still hope. Yes, I can be healed. There is someone looking for what I've concealed in my secret drawer, in my pockets deep. You will find the reasons I can't sleep and you will still want me. But will you still want me? Will you still want...? Well, I say come for the week. You can sleep in my bed, and pass through my life like a dream in my head. It will... it will be easy. I will make it easy. But all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time; a melody to keep me from worrying. Oh, some simple progression to keep my fingers busy, and words that are sure to come back to me and they'll be laughing, and they'll be laughing. My mediocrity. My mediocrity. (and they'll be laughing.)

0

Sep 11, 2012

Sep 11, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC

A Song to Pass the Time

There's a middle aged woman; she's dragging her feet. She carries baskets of clothes to the laundromat while the Mexican children kick rocks into the street; and they laugh in a language I don't understand, but I love them. Why do I love them? So the neighborhood is dimming as I smoke on the porch and watch the people as they pass, enclosed by their cars; on their faces just anger or disappointment. I start wishing there was something I could offer them. A consolation, what could I offer them? And they are sad in their suburbs; robots water their lawn and everything they touch gets dusted spotless, and so they start to believe they've not touched anything at all and the cars in the driveway only multiply. They are lost in their houses. I have heard them sing in the shower, making speeches to their sister on the telephone saying, "You come home. Woman, you come here." Don't stay so far away from me. This weather has me wanting love more tangible. Something I can hold 'cause it's getting cold. I say, "Hold up our fists to the flame in the sky. to block out the light that's reaching for our eyes." 'Cause it... 'cause it would blind us. Yeah, it will blind us. Well, I've locked my actions in the grooves of routine. So I may never be free of this apathy, but I wait for a letter that is coming for me. She sends me pictures of the ocean in an envelope so there is still hope. Yes, I can be healed. There is someone looking for what I've concealed in my secret drawer, in my pockets deep. You will find the reasons I can't sleep and you will still want me. But will you still want me? Will you still want...? Well, I say come for the week. You can sleep in my bed, and pass through my life like a dream in my head. It will... it will be easy. I will make it easy. But all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time; a melody to keep me from worrying. Oh, some simple progression to keep my fingers busy, and words that are sure to come back to me and they'll be laughing, and they'll be laughing. My mediocrity. My mediocrity. (and they'll be laughing.)

48

Did you expect it all to stop at the wave of your hand? Like the sun's just going to drop if it's night you demand. Well, in the dark we're just air, so the house might dissolve. But once again we are gone. Who's going to care if we were ever here at all? Well summer's going to come; it's gonna cloud our eyes again. No need to focus when there's nothing that's worth seeing. So we trade liquor for blood in an attempt to tip the scales. I think you lost what you loved in that mess of details. They seemed so important at the time, but now you can't recall any of the names, faces, or lines; it's more the feeling of it all. Well, winter's going to end. I'm going to clean these veins again. So close to dying that I finally can start living. "Hi, we're back. This is radio KX and we're here with Conor Oberst of the band Bright Eyes. How are you doing Conor?" "Fine, thanks. Just a little wet." "Oh, it's still coming down out there?" "Yeah, I sort of had to run from the car." "Well we're glad you made it! Now, your album 'Fevers and Mirrors'... tell us about the title. I know there's a good deal of repeated imagery in the lyrics; fevers, mirrors, scales, clocks. Could you discuss some of this?" "Sure, let's see... the fevers..." "First, First let me say that, this is a brilliant record, man, we're all really into it here at the station and we get lots of calls, it's really good stuff." "Thanks. Thanks a lot." "So talk about some of the symbolisms." "The fever?" "Sure!" "Well, the fever is basically, what ever ails you, or oppresses you... It could be anything. In my case it's my neurosis, my depression... but I don't want it to be limited to that... it's certainly different for different people. It's whatever keeps you up at night." "I see." "And the, and the mirror's like, as you might have guessed, self-examination, or reflection, or whatever form. This could be vanity, or self loathing. I, I know I'm, I'm guilty of both." "That's interesting. How about the scale?" "The scales are essentially our attempt to solve our problems quantitatively, through logic or rationalization. In my opinion it's often fruitless, but... always, no, not always... And the clocks and calendars it's uh... is just... time... our little measurements, it's like, it's always chasing after us." "It is. It is. Uh, How about this Arienette, how does she fit into all this?" "Um, I'd prefer not to talk about it, in case she's listening." "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize she was a real person." "She's not. I made her up." "Oh, so she's not real?" "Just as real as you or I." "I don't think I understand." "Neither do I, but after I grow up I will. I mean a lot... a lot of things are really unclear for me right now." "That's interesting. Ah, now you mentioned your depression..." "...No I didn't." "You're from Nebraska, right?" "Yeah. So?" "Now, let me now if I'm getting too personal, but there seem to be a pretty dark past back there somewhere. What was it like for you growing up?" "Dark? Not really... uh... actually I had a great childhood, my parents were wonderful. I went to a Catholic school. They have... they had money, so... it... It was all... easy. Basically I had everything I wanted handed to me." "Really? So some of the references, like babies in bathtubs, are not biographical?" "Well I do have a brother who died in a bathtub. Drowned. Actually, I had five brothers who died that way." Chuckles "No, I'm serious. My mother drowned one every year for five consecutive years. They were all named Padraic, so that's... they all got one song." "Hmm." "It's kinda like walking out the door to discover it's a window." "But your music certainly is very personal." "Of course. I put a lot of myself into what I do. But it's like, being an author you have to, free yourself to use symbolism and allegory to reach your goal and, and a part of that is, compassion, empathy for other people and their, and their situations. Some of what I sing comes from other people's experiences as well as my own. It... It shouldn't matter, the message is intended to be universal." "I see what you mean." "Can you make that sound stop, please?" "Yes! ...and your goal?" "I don't know. Uh, create feelings, I guess. A song? It never ends up the way you planned it, though." "That's funny that you say that, do you think that..." "Do you ever hear things that aren't really there?" "I'm sorry, what?" "Never mind. How long have you worked at this station?" "Oh, just a few minutes. Uh, now you mentioned empathy for others. Would you say that that is what motivates you to make the music that you make?" "No, not really. It's more a need for sympathy. I want people to feel sorry for me. I like the feel of the burn of the audience's eyes on me when I'm whispering all my darkest secrets into the microphone. When I was a kid, I used to carry this safety pin around with me, everywhere I went in my pocket. And when people weren't paying enough attention to me, I'd dig it into my arm until I started crying. Everyone would stop what they were doing and ask me what was the matter. I guess, I guess I kinda..." "Really? You're telling me you're doing all this for attention?" "No, I hate it when people look at me. I get nauseous. In fact, I could care less what people think, about me. Do you feel that? Wanna dance?" "No, I'm feeling sick." "I really just wanna be warm yellow light that pours all over everyone I love." "So, uh, you're gonna play something for us now. Is this a new song?" "Yeah, but I haven't written it yet. It's one I've been meaning to write, uh, called, "A Song To Pass The Time." "Oh, that's a nice title." "No it isn't. You should write your own scripts." "Yeah, I know!"

0

Sep 10, 2012

Sep 10, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC

An Attempt to Tip the Scales

Did you expect it all to stop at the wave of your hand? Like the sun's just going to drop if it's night you demand. Well, in the dark we're just air, so the house might dissolve. But once again we are gone. Who's going to care if we were ever here at all? Well summer's going to come; it's gonna cloud our eyes again. No need to focus when there's nothing that's worth seeing. So we trade liquor for blood in an attempt to tip the scales. I think you lost what you loved in that mess of details. They seemed so important at the time, but now you can't recall any of the names, faces, or lines; it's more the feeling of it all. Well, winter's going to end. I'm going to clean these veins again. So close to dying that I finally can start living. "Hi, we're back. This is radio KX and we're here with Conor Oberst of the band Bright Eyes. How are you doing Conor?" "Fine, thanks. Just a little wet." "Oh, it's still coming down out there?" "Yeah, I sort of had to run from the car." "Well we're glad you made it! Now, your album 'Fevers and Mirrors'... tell us about the title. I know there's a good deal of repeated imagery in the lyrics; fevers, mirrors, scales, clocks. Could you discuss some of this?" "Sure, let's see... the fevers..." "First, First let me say that, this is a brilliant record, man, we're all really into it here at the station and we get lots of calls, it's really good stuff." "Thanks. Thanks a lot." "So talk about some of the symbolisms." "The fever?" "Sure!" "Well, the fever is basically, what ever ails you, or oppresses you... It could be anything. In my case it's my neurosis, my depression... but I don't want it to be limited to that... it's certainly different for different people. It's whatever keeps you up at night." "I see." "And the, and the mirror's like, as you might have guessed, self-examination, or reflection, or whatever form. This could be vanity, or self loathing. I, I know I'm, I'm guilty of both." "That's interesting. How about the scale?" "The scales are essentially our attempt to solve our problems quantitatively, through logic or rationalization. In my opinion it's often fruitless, but... always, no, not always... And the clocks and calendars it's uh... is just... time... our little measurements, it's like, it's always chasing after us." "It is. It is. Uh, How about this Arienette, how does she fit into all this?" "Um, I'd prefer not to talk about it, in case she's listening." "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize she was a real person." "She's not. I made her up." "Oh, so she's not real?" "Just as real as you or I." "I don't think I understand." "Neither do I, but after I grow up I will. I mean a lot... a lot of things are really unclear for me right now." "That's interesting. Ah, now you mentioned your depression..." "...No I didn't." "You're from Nebraska, right?" "Yeah. So?" "Now, let me now if I'm getting too personal, but there seem to be a pretty dark past back there somewhere. What was it like for you growing up?" "Dark? Not really... uh... actually I had a great childhood, my parents were wonderful. I went to a Catholic school. They have... they had money, so... it... It was all... easy. Basically I had everything I wanted handed to me." "Really? So some of the references, like babies in bathtubs, are not biographical?" "Well I do have a brother who died in a bathtub. Drowned. Actually, I had five brothers who died that way." Chuckles "No, I'm serious. My mother drowned one every year for five consecutive years. They were all named Padraic, so that's... they all got one song." "Hmm." "It's kinda like walking out the door to discover it's a window." "But your music certainly is very personal." "Of course. I put a lot of myself into what I do. But it's like, being an author you have to, free yourself to use symbolism and allegory to reach your goal and, and a part of that is, compassion, empathy for other people and their, and their situations. Some of what I sing comes from other people's experiences as well as my own. It... It shouldn't matter, the message is intended to be universal." "I see what you mean." "Can you make that sound stop, please?" "Yes! ...and your goal?" "I don't know. Uh, create feelings, I guess. A song? It never ends up the way you planned it, though." "That's funny that you say that, do you think that..." "Do you ever hear things that aren't really there?" "I'm sorry, what?" "Never mind. How long have you worked at this station?" "Oh, just a few minutes. Uh, now you mentioned empathy for others. Would you say that that is what motivates you to make the music that you make?" "No, not really. It's more a need for sympathy. I want people to feel sorry for me. I like the feel of the burn of the audience's eyes on me when I'm whispering all my darkest secrets into the microphone. When I was a kid, I used to carry this safety pin around with me, everywhere I went in my pocket. And when people weren't paying enough attention to me, I'd dig it into my arm until I started crying. Everyone would stop what they were doing and ask me what was the matter. I guess, I guess I kinda..." "Really? You're telling me you're doing all this for attention?" "No, I hate it when people look at me. I get nauseous. In fact, I could care less what people think, about me. Do you feel that? Wanna dance?" "No, I'm feeling sick." "I really just wanna be warm yellow light that pours all over everyone I love." "So, uh, you're gonna play something for us now. Is this a new song?" "Yeah, but I haven't written it yet. It's one I've been meaning to write, uh, called, "A Song To Pass The Time." "Oh, that's a nice title." "No it isn't. You should write your own scripts." "Yeah, I know!"

71

Sunrise, sunset Sunrise, sunset Swiftly go the days. Sunrise, sunset You wake up then you undress. It always is the same. The sunrise and the sunsets You are lying while you confess, keep trying to explain the sunrise and the sunsets. You realized then you forgot what you've been trying to retain. But everybody knows that it is all about the things that get stuck inside of your head, like the song your roommate sings or a vision of her body as she stretches out on your bed. She raises her hands in the air, asked you, when was the last time you looked in the mirror? 'Cause you've changed. Yeah, you've changed. Sunrises, sunsets You're hopeful then you regret. The circle never breaks. With a sunrise or a sunset there's a change of heart or address. Is there nothing that remains for a sunrise or a sunset? You're manic and depressed. Will you ever feel okay? For a sunrise or a sunset your lover is an actress. Did you really think she'd stay for a sunrise or a sunset? You're either coming or you just left, but you're always on the way towards a sunrise or a sunset, a scribble or a sonnet. They are really just the same. To the sunrise and the sunset, the master and the servant have exactly the same fate. It's a sunrise and a sunset from a cradle to a casket there is no way to escape the sunrise and the sunset. Hold your sadness like a puppet, keep putting on the play. But everything you do is leading to the point where you just won't know what to do. And at that moment you may laugh, but there is someone there who will be laughing louder than you. So it's true; the trick is complete. Become everything you said you never would be. You're a fool! You're a fool! Sunrise, sunset, sunrises, sunsets Sunrise and the sunsets. Sunrise, sunset Where are you Arienette? Where are you Arienette?

0

Sep 2, 2012

Sep 2, 2012 at 12:29 AM UTC

Sunrise, Sunset

Sunrise, sunset Sunrise, sunset Swiftly go the days. Sunrise, sunset You wake up then you undress. It always is the same. The sunrise and the sunsets You are lying while you confess, keep trying to explain the sunrise and the sunsets. You realized then you forgot what you've been trying to retain. But everybody knows that it is all about the things that get stuck inside of your head, like the song your roommate sings or a vision of her body as she stretches out on your bed. She raises her hands in the air, asked you, when was the last time you looked in the mirror? 'Cause you've changed. Yeah, you've changed. Sunrises, sunsets You're hopeful then you regret. The circle never breaks. With a sunrise or a sunset there's a change of heart or address. Is there nothing that remains for a sunrise or a sunset? You're manic and depressed. Will you ever feel okay? For a sunrise or a sunset your lover is an actress. Did you really think she'd stay for a sunrise or a sunset? You're either coming or you just left, but you're always on the way towards a sunrise or a sunset, a scribble or a sonnet. They are really just the same. To the sunrise and the sunset, the master and the servant have exactly the same fate. It's a sunrise and a sunset from a cradle to a casket there is no way to escape the sunrise and the sunset. Hold your sadness like a puppet, keep putting on the play. But everything you do is leading to the point where you just won't know what to do. And at that moment you may laugh, but there is someone there who will be laughing louder than you. So it's true; the trick is complete. Become everything you said you never would be. You're a fool! You're a fool! Sunrise, sunset, sunrises, sunsets Sunrise and the sunsets. Sunrise, sunset Where are you Arienette? Where are you Arienette?

51

At the center of the world there's a statue of a girl. She is standing near a well with a bucket, bare and dry. I went and looked her in the eyes and she turned me into sand. This clumsy form that I despise; it scattered easy in her hand and came to rest upon a beach with a million others there. We sat and waited for the sea to stretch out so that we could disappear into the endlessness of blue; into the horror of the truth. You see, we are far less than we know. Yeah, we are far less than we knew. But we know what we could taste Girls found honey to drench our hands. Men cut marble to mark our graves. Said we'll need something to remind us of all the sweetness that has passed through us; fresh sangria and lemon tea. The priests dressed children for a choir. white robed small voices praise Him but found no joy in what was sung. The funeral had begun. In the middle of the day when you drive home to your place from that job that makes you sleep, back to the thoughts that keep you awake, long after night has come to claim any light that still remains in the corner of the frame that you put around her face. Two pills just weren't enough. The alarm clock's going off but you're not waking up. This isn't happening happening happening happening happening. It is.

0

Sep 2, 2012

Sep 2, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC

The Center of the World

At the center of the world there's a statue of a girl. She is standing near a well with a bucket, bare and dry. I went and looked her in the eyes and she turned me into sand. This clumsy form that I despise; it scattered easy in her hand and came to rest upon a beach with a million others there. We sat and waited for the sea to stretch out so that we could disappear into the endlessness of blue; into the horror of the truth. You see, we are far less than we know. Yeah, we are far less than we knew. But we know what we could taste Girls found honey to drench our hands. Men cut marble to mark our graves. Said we'll need something to remind us of all the sweetness that has passed through us; fresh sangria and lemon tea. The priests dressed children for a choir. white robed small voices praise Him but found no joy in what was sung. The funeral had begun. In the middle of the day when you drive home to your place from that job that makes you sleep, back to the thoughts that keep you awake, long after night has come to claim any light that still remains in the corner of the frame that you put around her face. Two pills just weren't enough. The alarm clock's going off but you're not waking up. This isn't happening happening happening happening happening. It is.

39