Luyện nghe bài hát Dead Cliché

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

you're you learn you work decay and die