Contactez-nous

Artiste: Grieves
Titre: Vice Grip

Assurez-vous que les corrections sont tout à fait exactes
S'il vous plaît, les mettez en évidence en quelque sorte!
Vous pouvez, par exemple, écrire
INCORRECT: avant la mauvaise ligne
CORRECT: avant la correspondant ligne correcte
Autrement, nous ne pouvons les corriger pas! Merci pour votre aide.

Look at what the cat dragged in, still breathing last night's air/
Hand shaking cause the vice never fights fair/
And you're relating cause' you struggle with the same shit/
And wrote the threat of addiction off with the same sip/
Drowning, holding on to anything and everything around me, staring down the barrel of a browning/
Scowering, looking for any chance that allows me to sip another bad taste down and devour it whole/
Young bright and bold with a bottle for a friend and a heart full of holes/
No diamond in a stocking full of coal/
Never listen to the world when it told me I should slow my roll/
It's abusive, but never hands on a women, choked a couple bottle necks and pounced when I shouldn't/
If the proof is in the pudding I done ate it all up, instead of savoring the taste I love/

I'm on that shit again and I don't wanna come back down/
I hold my broken crown i pieces/
Pour my last shot to the ground/
You're on that shit again, trying to overload my moudn/
You always chase me round in circles till I'm forced to hit the clouds/
I won't come down/
What's your meaning of high, huh?
Getting lifted on a smoke cloud, moderately poisoning yourself until you zone out?/
Stick the dragon in your veins, sniffing Adderall and Cain, tilt another Styrofoam cup to your mouth/
Me? I got my ow way to get up, starts with a rocks glass and ends with a hiccup/
And all the while I've been camouflaging my symptoms like I don't do the harder drugs cause I slip up/
Slip up - yeah that kid slipped up - rehabilitated twice and skipped straight to the pub/
I got my pops freaking out about his son and I'm juggling the stress of an artist by getting drunk/
No difference /
I escape like the rest of them, no thought, no faith like the rest of them/
I've been focusing and fighting so hard that I deserve a little bit of R & R, right?

I'm on that shit again and I don't wanna come back down/
I hold my broken crown i pieces/
Pour my last shot to the ground/
You're on that shit again, trying to overload my mound/
You always chase me round in circles till I'm forced to hit the clouds/
I won't come down/

I never claimed to be a saint, shit/
I built a life off of mishaps/
And cheers proudly to my flaws with a chipped glass/
The sick fact is I'm happy when I'm shit-canned/
At least a little bit, I smile like a lit candle/
But I'm aware that I'm just blinded by the blanket of it/
And stress doesn't get relinquished just by drinking something/
And I don't know if I'm addicted to the feeling or the fact that I can make a little exit without thinking of it/
Hell, I guess I'm showing all the signs huh?/
And redirecting to where that alcohol defines fun/
And I'll admit that I've been known to have a good time, but promised that I'd never cross the line/
But never learned to draw it, call it, write it with a goal, make it so the night train never gets to go/
I'm as vulnerable as any of you other Joe Shmoe's and got a couple little vices of my own.