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 every day,

Starin at the veins through the skin on my wrist.

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."



And I'd be nothing but a dead cliché (a dead cliché)

A dead cliché

With nothing to say (nothing to say, nothing to say)

But farewell notes are so passé.



So shoot me in the gallery

We'll call it art

You can critique the bloodstains on the floor.

Why let my death go to waste

If I'm dying anyway

I might as well have something to die for.

Because I'm breathin in dead air

I'm tuggin at dead skin

I know the only road I walk is a dead end.

And the papers would agree,

It's the only fame I see

Because all the greatest artists are insane

Or dead.



And I'd be no more than a dead cliché (a dead cliché)

A dead cliché

With nothing to say (nothing to say, nothing to say)

But farewell notes are so passé.



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 

And screamed 

You're born, you learn, you work, decay, and die.



And I'd be no more than a dead cliché,

A dead cliché, a dead cliché,

With nothing to say

But farewell notes are so...



And I'd be no more than a dead cliché (a dead cliché)

A dead cliché

With nothing to say (nothing to say, nothing to say)

But farewell notes are so...

Oh, farewell notes are so passé.