Luyện nghe bài hát Dead Cliché

I strayed from the kitchen where we kept the knives
that could slice the tense air from clenched
I partial to pain but I fled home everyday,
staring at the veins through the on my wrist
And in the morning when my throat burned like and scrapes
and salty dry refused to wake
the only warmth were cold of a mother
say "it'll be ok"
I'd be no more A Dead Clich,
A Clich
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 death go to waste, if I'm anyway
I might as well have to die for
Cause I'm in dead air, I'm tugging at dead skin
I know that 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 and wire
I painted it the color of crying
I wore it on my
for the to see

you're you learn you work decay and die