Story of being human and alone in the 60's

I miss the summer heat, and the love I once recieved,
before I turned 
seventeen.
Respect is hard to come by,
now sitting, watching her sing lullabies to her newborn baby,
I can't relate.
She looks out the open window, glaring like she's just another neighbor down the street,
In which I do not live. 
I'm waiting for love,
which dares not to come.
Knowing it would be found, found out.
The loose woven threads of my jacket tangle together as I crunch the fabric into the fist I'm making.
There's no point,
belive me, if anyone should know,
It's me.