| Driving wooden stakes through black hearts
 | 
| The clock strikes midnight
 | 
| The dye has been cast
 | 
| And the sun sets once again
 | 
| Broken records spin love songs till dawn
 | 
| Press repeat on «Black Celebration»
 | 
| It’s the same old song and dance
 | 
| The needle scratches and the record skips
 | 
| Everything matters more to me
 | 
| I find the beauty in everything
 | 
| And I’m trying hard to let go
 | 
| Our scars are here to remind us that our past was real
 | 
| Everything is quickly fading
 | 
| And I don’t want to sit here waiting
 | 
| For life to pass me by
 | 
| I want to be acquainted with the night
 | 
| And find the solemn places where I can hide
 | 
| Screaming to myself so loud
 | 
| The white blisters in my throat, they hold me back
 | 
| Can you hear me screaming?
 | 
| Turning whispers into shouts
 | 
| And I write these songs hoping
 | 
| My words will help me through the night;
 | 
| Pens are daggers and daggers swords
 | 
| I’m using ink as blood and I’m not the only one
 | 
| And the record skips, and the records skips
 | 
| Standing here with this dagger in my hand
 | 
| The broken record skips and it tells me love is dead
 | 
| The sun has turned it’s back on me once again
 | 
| Broken mirrors shed no reflections
 | 
| Just imperfections
 | 
| These broken shards cut me up
 | 
| No one can see me;
 | 
| I find the beauty in everything
 | 
| And I want you to know that I hate growing up
 | 
| And watching people come and go
 | 
| I’m counting angels as they fall |