Difficult Days

I am tired
Tired of the battle
Weary of the struggle
Worn out
Worn down by constant effort to stand

And the song of the
Cheap whore of suicide
Like a moist siren,
wooing me to sweet repose,
Calls
Ever calls
In a deafening whisper
That bellows
Drowning out the voice of hope
Denying and possible future
With finality pronouncing
My tomorrow D.O.A.