Chris conde - Ferris wheel

bike ride slow through the wind and the cold
but i'm tryin' to get that shit cuz i'm fiendin' and i'm cold
i'm so fucked up cuz i got myself a hole in my soul that i've tried to stuff up with that
ice coca cola, whiskey, Jesus let let me get these please just let my friends be
home so i can empty out my pockets tradin' up my dollars for this nonsense but i really just don't care as long as i stop feeling nauseous polish off my bottom dollar holler if you holdin hope my homies home so i forget about this moment and the ones that will come after
and the ones that came before it escape into a state of drug-enduced abused endorphins Of course I'm morphin into a corpse, and coursing through me slow inevitable death of testing methamphetamines I never bet that i would see myself accepting death's defeat
but then again i never thought i'd even be alive past age 15 cuz this is my life don't ever try and re-arrange it i'll live for myself, to hell with all your fucking haters I tried to live without sin, but sins within my nature so every time i bust a rhyme i hope you catch the vapors


cuz i'm not trying to feel,
just want to watch the lights
as i spin on this ferris wheel
cuz i'm not trying to feel
just want to feel the air
between my fingertips foreal

but why the fuck can't i stop using long enough to write some music, used to use this
shit to juice up lyric writing and producing. Confused about my use i'm stoned out like i saw medusa excuses prove i'm using way beyond the word profusely and i'm losing myself health is fading. i really think my fucking kidneys are fucking failing, bottle of jameson a day has got me sailing and i don't see another way out besides my taking my own life these cold nights with no lights bro my foresight, a short life with toes ice cold or more like a sword fight with your eyes closed no more life, no more fight, no more cycle and i know the nails are halfway in the coffin, i'm rottin from the inside out, i just sit back and watch them lower me deeper, see the reaper in sky just watching plottin to pull my soul to hell, and tell my have a nice day and i can feel it the blackness, that fact is i practice this witch craft the matches, the candles the ashes, the curses the verses immersed and rehearsed in the service of self with
the drugs in my person

Writers: CHRISTOPHER NICHOLAS CONDE

Lyrics © Songtrust Ave

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