Of What Am I Sure

Can I truly make it on my own?
Or will I fall again, and break a bone?
The future is unwritten as of yet,
Will I survive? Don’t make a bet.

Moving forward I will do my best,
The next step is a brand-new quest.
Overwhelming trepidation clutches me,
How things will work, I cannot see.

Once again, there is unbearable pain,
This may truly be my last refrain.
Nothing seems to work very well,
I am constantly in a place called Hell.

My head is no longer working right,
How do I go forward and continue to fight?
It’s time to lay me down to die,
And finally head to Heaven on high.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I thank God, the pills I did take.

Backstory

I don’t really remember writing this poem. About an hour before I had taken 60 oxycodones. It was my
intention to die. This was soon after my left leg amputation and my inability to transfer from the
toilet to my wheelchair when I first arrived at home. I had decided, very logically, that to not be
a burden on family, I would have to “check out”. I wrote this poem before finally passing out.