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Young Guns - Stitches

Every hour is a season
Every season* is a day
So I sit here picking stitches
'cos I find comfort in decay
How I long to fill my lungs
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
My wings are clipped but even if they weren't
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.