Luyện nghe bài hát Dead Cliché

I strayed from the that's where we kept the knives
that could slice the tense air from clenched
I wasn't partial to but I fled home everyday,
staring at the through the skin on my wrist
And in the morning when my throat burned cuts and scrapes
and salty dry eyes to wake
the only warmth cold hands of a mother
say "it'll be ok"
I'd be no more than A Clich,
A Dead
A Dead
with to say
farewell are so pass
So shoot me in a gallery, call it art
you can critique the stain on the floor
why let my go to waste, if I'm dying anyway
I might as have something to die for
Cause I'm breathing in dead air, I'm at dead skin
I that every road I walk is a dead end
And the papers would agree it's the fame I'll see
all the greatest artists are insane. Or Dead.
I made a heart out of tape and
I painted it the color of eyes
I it on my sleeve
for the to see

you're you learn you work decay and die