Poetry | Journal

I’m restless.
The candles on the windowsill
have burned down the wick,
and still hanging on
the tips of my lips are the words,
if you want thing’s to be different
you have to start living
different, still hanging on
the tips of my eye lids
the furrow of frustration
that somehow I’m always the problem
because it’s easier than owning up
or working towards a solution
try and understand
I’m restless.
The evening summer rain
always brings so much calm
but right now, all I hear is the patter
of torn checkered vans
walking aimlessly without a home
and the hum from inside of his arms
and it sounds just like the cycle
of my inner monologue asking
what could I have done
differently.
I’m restless,
twenty one is coming up
and knowing

the sun is setting,
I can’t look.