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Escape Plan (prod. Samarei)

from by Chris Orrick



I went to sleep a fifth deep one night when I was twenty-three
Woke up sober and hung over age of twenty-nine
I've never been the type to keep my feelings discrete
Sometimes I try to hide them buried under funny lines
Walked outta prison on the second day of January
No shirt, no shoes, no service on the flip phone
I made that cell my little sanctuary
Now I'm worried how I'll feel when I get home
I hung my pictures how I liked them
Found the perfect place to put them when the window let's the light in
And I got used to having cold feet
Walking on that concrete
And how the jumpsuit fitted on me
Most people hate it when it's quiet, didn't hear the way that I did
The noise made me appreciate the silence
I used to block it out and drift away
Maybe leaving was a big mistake

I'm just trying to stick to my escape plan

I'll be honest, I didn't fit in with the commons
And my commissary always was a little light
Yeah, I had my problems, oversensitive to comments
And I probably had a tendency of picking fights
A little loud mouth, but fuck it, I'm out now
Time to get comfortable around crowds
See what's happening around town, maybe grab a coffee
Dig through records down at Found Sound
Just keep my head low, my cellmate said so
Try not to focus on your cell phone (hell no)
Remember you don't gotta do this alone
Try not to focus on what used to be home
That Stockholm Syndrome could block your vision
Put you right back into the same spot you've been in
You gotta learn to be more honest with that
If you're not careful you might wanna go back

I'm just trying to stick to my escape plan

Always looking for the next fix, wake up early
Time for breakfast, development arrested
Signs pointing to the exit
Today I'm really gonna test it
Don't let it get the best, Chris
Have a good day man
Just try to stick to your escape plan
You're gonna be great man
Just stick to your escape plan


from Portraits, released May 4, 2018


all rights reserved



Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

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