I tire of forcing words out onto page,

In mournful tune, dictating

My woes for all to hear,

In subtle, read-between-each-line, tones

Merging feelings with what they

Want to see and read, allowing them

Their comforts, doing the job they ask

Whilst marking out the passage of

My untimely demise.

I cannot do what they want forever

My mind grows weary, my body sick

And I long, always, for the day when I shall slip away.