Young Guns - 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

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

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