I strayed from the kitchen that's where we kept the knives
|
that could slice the tense air from clenched fists
|
I wasn't partial to pain but I fled home everyday,
|
staring at the veins through the skin on my wrist
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And in the morning when my throat burned like cuts and scrapes
|
and salty dry eyes refused to wake
|
the only warmth were cold hands of a mother
|
she'd say "it'll be ok"
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I'd be no more than A Dead Cliche,
|
A Dead Cliche
|
A Dead Cliche
|
with nothing to say
|
farewell notes are so passe
|
So shoot me in a gallery, we'll call it art
|
you can critique the blood stain on the floor
|
why let my death go to waste, if I'm dying anyway
|
I might as well have something to die for
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Cause I¡¯m breathing in dead air, I¡¯m tugging at dead skin
|
I know that every road I walk is a dead end
|
And the papers would agree it's the only fame I'll see
|
Cause all the greatest artists are insane. Or Dead.
|
I made a heart out of tape and wire
|
I painted it the color of crying eyes
|
I wore it on my sleeve
|
for the vultures to see
|
screamed
|
you're born you learn you work decay and die
|
|
-----------------
|
Dead Cliche
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| Street To Nowhere |
