Alias, Themselves, DJ Andrew - Crossection Of Wreckage lyrics

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