Stitches

Every hour is a season

every minute lasts a day

so i sit here picking stitches

i find comfort in decayhow i long to fill my lungsso tell me how does it feel to

breathe in cold and clean

cause ive been living on my knees

since i was seventeenthought i was safe beneath the snow

but even under cover i still chokewell my wings were clipped and even if they wern't

ive not the guts to fly and leave behind the earth

theres no poetry in my soul just a list of lies ive told

and i dont know how much longer i can hold on x3