Every hour is a season,
Every minute lasts a day.
So I sit here,
Picking stitches,
'cause I find comfort in decay,
How I long to fill my lungs.
So tell me how does it feel,
To breathe air cold and clean ?!
'cause I've been living on my knees,
Since I was seventeen.
Thought I was safe beneath the smoke,
But even under cover I still choke.
And my wings are clipped,
And even if they werend,
I've not the guts to fly,
And leave behind the earth.
There's no poetry in my soul,
Just a list of lies I've told.
And I don't know how much longer I can hold on.