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. 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." I'd be nothing but a dead cliche with nothing to say nothing to say? But 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 migt as well have something to die for. 'cause I'm breahting in dead air, I'm tugging 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 seek, 'Cause all the greatest artists are insane ... or dead. I'd be no more than a dead cliche a dead cliche a dead cliche with nothing to say 'Cause farewell notes are so passe Made a heart outta tape and wire, painted it the color of crying eyes. Wore it on my sleeve for the vultures to see and screamed "your born, you learn, you work decay and die...