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 ear … Read More
via quotingeccentricity
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