мокрая - quest pistols show ft. monatik (speed up)

ты так красива

Миллион чувств (speed)

Yung Pretty, Rabbit Killa - Мальчик плачет speed up

Бумбокс - Вахтёрам (Speed Up)

Макс Корж – Эндорфин (speed up)

гречка - здесь были [speed up]

Quest Pistols – Ты так красива

ты выглядишь как казино… (speed up)

может то было любовью opium remix

Thistle in the sock, thorn in the shoe,
I walk like fire trying not to bloom.

ooooooooo…

I wake with a jaw like a padlock tight,
bruise-blue sky and a fist of light.
Temper’s a tether, round and round,
tongue like a tinder, teeth like a sound.
Pulse says “push,” but the kettle says “slow,”
steam does a sermon only kitchens know.
Street grit, split lip, pride on show, 
I call it a shield; it calls me low.
Anger’s a circle with a sugar rim,
sweet for a second, then bitter in.
Bites at the tail where the poison lives,
asks me to pay what the silence gives.

Hand on the drum, breathe, lad, breathe.

Leave what bleeds, keep what frees.

My fury bites its bright green tail,

slow and patient, slimy snail.

Soft and slow this anger grow,

This love with nowhere left to go.

Say you see? You say you know?
Careful, words can salt the snow.

Don’t dress a wound to make a show,
Soft voice: stay near, stay clear, let kindness flow.

I’ve thrown voice like a bottle in a cul-de-sac,
round it goes, just comes back.
Chewed on the steel of a swallowed “why,”
called it a spine, but it was a lie.
Rage is a dog on a mirrored floor,
runs at its ghost and finds no door.
Tongue wants scorch, heart wants bread,
hands want work that warms instead.
I don’t need sermons that pat my hair,
I need a chair, a cuppa, care.
Count to ten? Mate, count to rain,
let it knock on the tin of your ribcage pain.

Foot to earth, heel, toe, heel.

Name the feeling; don’t let it deal.

My fury bites its bright green tail,

slow, deliberate, garden snail.

Soft and slow this anger grow,

Love with nowhere safe to go.

You say you “get it,” say it’s fate,

words like gates that close too late.

If you can’t carry, then don’t compel;

keep your calm;

I’ll keep my well.

Thistle toe, missile-throw, I’m done with that old show.
Breathe below the collarbone, 
let the colder weather go.
Circle sharp?
I blunt it slow.
Loop that bites?
I teach it no.

Hush the blade, hold the thread,
tame the red, bake the bread.

Alright then, torch down, open palm,
let the morning do its balm.
Anger’s a bell I ring too long;
today I’ll listen for the song.
Give me a job that forgives the day, 
wash one dish, put one word away.
If grief’s the ghost that sets the pace,
I’ll keep a corner at the table place.
I am not kinder for swallowing flame;
I’m kinder for learning to say its name.
So when the spin begins to throw,
I plant my foot and let wind blow.

My fury bites its bright green tail,

slow and patient, little snail.

Soft and slow this anger grow,

till love can find a way to go.

If I must choose between burn and bond,

choose the hand, the hearth, the pond.

Round we drum, but not to break,
we drum to mend what mornings make.

If the thorn says “run,” I’ll lace my pace.

If the circle snaps, we’ll stitch with grace.

Heel, toe, let the thistle know:
we’re more than what we overthrow.

гречка - здесь были [speed up]

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