Young Guns

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.