Again (Death)

I wish I were dead.
Again.
That familiar desire
which I've known for so long.
Steps slow,
eyes tear,
head starts to hang,
nose runs,
My Life.
Which is mostly waiting:

Waiting for my bed time,
waiting for payday,
waiting for someone to visit,
waiting for the miracle to come;
Waiting for my Death.

Not in a an angry, spiteful,
"I'll show you" type of way.
Rather the Death which is
a kiss on the lips
from Eternity,
calling me home at last.
That Death that is the
restful reward,
as sleep to one
who's labored all day.

People say I'm too young,
but none know the Labours
I've wearried under,
nor the sweet relaxation I hear
at the very word "death."
Not the "loss of self"
people fear.