Conor Oberst
American singer-songwriter best known for his work in Bright Eyes.
And I never thought this life was possible,You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for.
So I wait for the day
when I'll hear the key
as it turns in the lock
And the guard will say to me,
"Oh my patient prisoner
you waited for this day and finally,
you are free!
You are free!
You are free!"
So I want to get myself attached to something bolted down,
So that these winds of circumstance won't keep blowing me around.
From when I land to when I leave
there is enough time to sleep and sing.
I keep running around, when all I want is to lay motionless.
And me I'm in the bathroom
crying out my eyelids because it's hard to be a man
when you're scared, just like a little kid.
And in the morning when the sun rise.
Look in the water, see the blue sky.
As if heaven has been laid there at our feet.
a good woman will pick you apart
a box full of suggestions for your possible heart
and you may be offended. and you may be afraid
but don't walk away, don't walk away
The hook is in deep boys,
there is no more time.
So you can struggle in the water
and be too stubborn to die,
or you could just let go and be lifted to the sky.
Don't be so amazing or I'll miss you too much.
But you should never be embarrassed by your trouble with living
Cause it's the ones with the sorest throats Laura,
who have done the most singing.
And the sad act like lepers
They stick to the shadows
They long to ring bells of warning
To tell of their coming
So that the pure can shut their doors.
Well, I could have been a famous singer
If I had someone else's voice
But failure's always sounded better
Let's fuck it up, boys, make some noise!
I think it is more like a ghost
that has been following us both.
Something vague that we're not seeing,
something more like a feeling.
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 suffering through some awful drive,
You occasionally cross my mind.
It's my hidden hope that you are still among them.
Well, are you?
It is clear to see that it is not them but me, who had 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 made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time
For a song I was bought
Now I lie when I talk
With a careful eye on the cue card.
Onto a stage I was pushed,
With my sorrow well rehearsed.
So give me all your pity and your money, now (all of it).
Do you guys consider yourselves to live in the country? [audience reaction]... I heard half "yes"es and have "no"s, so I guess you're confused.
Well, if you die... that's a bummer...
If I could act like
This was my real life,
And not some cage where I've been placed,
Well then, I could tell you
The truth like I used to
And not be afraid of sounding fake.
I had a brother once, he drowned in a bathtub,
before he'd ever learned how to talk.
And I don't know what his name was
but my mother does,
I heard her say it once, she said,
"Padraic, my prince, I have all but died from the sheer weight of my shame:
you cried but no-one came."
Everything must belong somewhere.
I know that now, that's why I'm staying here.