Not muttered into private space, under my own breath, with my chin against my chest.  Not with disowning glance, a downward-cast unseeing frown, that pretends some interest in the unimportant tasks of my fumbling unproductive hands.  No, not like this do I pray for death; at least, not any longer.  Now, without the old uncertainty, I say it with my face upturned, "Take me out of here!"  With my enlightened head held high, with my eyes aimed upward at whatever some may speculate is there, I state my case and stake my claim, if there's anything there to claim at all; "Take me out of here." 

No one commits a listening ear, and from those who cannot help but hear, I get a disapproving snarl, or some throw stones whose doubts and fears need rock-like reinforcement.  I dare you to not hate me, I dare you to make me want to stay.  That challenge never fails to evacuate the park; no one hangs around to watch what transpires after dark. 

I know it is not your problem, and I know that I am out of line.  I know it is just a childish tantrum, and I should keep it to myself.  But then, I'm not even addressing you; you are not the one I'm talking to, when I pray to end it all.  There is no one, either up or down, who answers prayers; in my time I have learned that prayers are never answered by deific bearded men, nor by winged and dancing angels.  Prayers do come true, though, this I know, for I have seen it happen.  This part is true, that praying is persuasion, but of your prayers that do come true, ask, "Who is the one persuaded?"  The persuaded one is only you, you're the only one who matters.