Crosssection of Wreckage - Themselves, Alias, DJ Andrew

We don’t believe in weak spot

For every cheap shot you got

We hold a mirror to your blind spot

Your throat holds artificial words

Spewing garbage lines out to the headliners herds

A puppet to your own disappointment

Your big egoed mouth is a fly in the ointment

This ain’t no rap and all name

All act and no pain

Drag around our honesty

Like a ball and a chain

Take a bullet for these two no question

You flake on labelmates at a managers suggestion

Now who’s the better man?

Who’s got the better plan?

Friends for life or fleeting fame leaving you with less than?

Throw the throat that golds the cope that slows hope

In the blood

Cold in the drug

Tow of show

And no

Thing

But owe

One wing and stole

Got no answer but you got a perfect shrug

To

Throw the throat that golds the cope that slows hope

In the blood

Cold in the drug

Tow of show

And no

Thing

But owe

One wing and stole

Like coffee goes coal in the give of your guts

Dues polluting how you dust to dust and skull touch

Diesel in the weight of your words

Credo in the wish that you serve

Eye teeth to the curb of age

Blues thief in a serge of days

Of sun over flesh

And Cease over breath

Spitting light from a cracked rock

Supporting life with your back stock

Watched wall clock never turns

Gotta push big and little hands to shape what you earn

The law of diminishing returns

Is all death and taxes

It’s gonna happen

Till that day we stay button pushing and rapping

All of these poems take place in the space between various bills

On the edge of a bed or the wiles of a fool hero’s cloud black and clear head

Best digested in a pair of 100 dollar headphones

Or in a dive bar on the back of a microphone

You can’t go eye for an eye

Alone on yourself

For too long you loose sight

Begin to see yourself as death

On the mic

Low level life

Poor chooser of fights

Disbeliever of hype

All raw eye and no sight

Alone in the light of your death on the mic

Or the sword of poor choice in life

Disbelief and diffuse hypes

This is yet another record about we and our littling

Something sensitive and naked out of song that we’re whittling

Bigger than the middle man up

You is or you isn’t

A thing of fragile or a cross section of wreckage

To which our living clings