Lletres: The Lips. Another Sellout.

I'll write you a novel, and you'll judge me.
You'll say I'm a failed attempt at life. Right?
So I maybe won't bother.
I'll tear my eyes out and shave my head with a kitchen knife.

Well I've got feelings of my own, buried deep inside.
Paintings, letters to a home that I tried to use to hide,

but I'm living a lie.

Well I never made much of life, so why start now?