Stitches

Every hour is a season,
Every minute lasts a day,
So I sit here picking stitches,
’Cos 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,
Cos 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 but even if they weren’t,
I’ve not the guts to fly and leave behind the earth.
There’s not poetry in my soul,
Just a list of lies I’ve told.
And I don’t’ know how much longer I can hold on.

And my wings are clipped but even if they weren’t,
I’ve not the guts to fly and leave behind the earth.
There’s not poetry in my soul,
Just a list of lies I’ve told.
And I don’t’ know how much longer I can hold on.

And my wings are clipped but even if they weren’t,
I’ve not the guts to fly and leave behind the earth.
There’s not poetry in my soul,
Just a list of lies I’ve told.
And I don’t’ know how much longer I can hold.