I Think Being An Old Soul Is A Compliment

I hold my phone and my lighter in my hands like a prayer  
 
For better nights
 
For brighter tomorrows
 
I stare through the slants in my blinds
The same moon illuminates this dirty room is same way it has for the past 3 years  
And the same thoughts fade in and out of my brain
Too late to be awake
I dream of nothing more then running
 
Things stop hurting eventually, just not soon enough
 
This soul too old and this body too young
This ache in my bones, will it lighten or simply become a background vibration of existence,
This tired ache?
 
I want to shake off the dust that's settled on my skin with no recollection of how it got there
 
The paint on my hands reminds me of the demons I have yet to exorcise