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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.