Waiting

They tell me to have patience, but honestly, I have none. I have black paint and I have blue skies, but I don’t have lists, I don’t have time. I stacked all my desires on the corners of my heart, I thought they would scream, I thought they would shout. I thought they were bullets and I was strong enough to pull the trigger. I thought I could hold a gun, but my arms are trembling, my breathing is faster than any shot. I am collapsing under the weight of everything I haven’t done, of all the places I haven’t been, of all the people I haven’t met. I don’t have life but rather the absence of it. I know I am young, but isn’t youth short-lived? Shouldn’t I be out there, spilling light onto darkness? Shouldn’t I be something by now? I am waiting for a sign maybe, I am looking to be found maybe. Why doesn’t anyone take notice of the girl without lists, the girl without time? The girl who can’t hold a gun, the girl’s whose heart has holes inside? They tell me to have patience, but honestly, I don’t belong here. Why am I the different one, the lonely one, the broken one? Maybe I am the chosen one, maybe this is a good thing, maybe the world is waiting for me, holding out my desires, holding out people that care, people who can’t shoot. I may not have patience but I have time to learn. Maybe I am young, but I am ready, I’m waiting.