Counted On

Every day,
I am counted on
to wake up
when every day
what I most want
is for a night’s sleep to become
the Great Sleep,
to move
without knowing I’ve moved
while leaving
the baggage behind.

Those who expect me to rise
must want that more than I want
never to rise again,
and how unfair is that
that I am overruled in that necessity
by others?  

Some say
I speak of this, of my own death and 
departure, too often.
Thye must be some of the ones 
ignorantly blocking my exit,
for if they truly knew me and how I felt
they would know
I speak of it far less often
than I think of it, and think of it 
far less often than the longing for it
courses through me whether I am
awake
or in dreams.