Psych Ward

The .45 auto is in my doctor's hands
As are the hollow points I bought.
My husband had to turn them over
Because my doctor knows my thoughts.

I was admitted to the hospital
On the eighth day of October -
I changed into blue scrubs
To be escorted in a wheelchair over.

The psych center staff are kind people,
Ready to help any way they can.
The problem is simple with me, really.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, man.

I bought the gun to kill myself
But I promised my doctor I wouldn't -
He promised me he'd sign commitment papers
If the promise I made couldn't.

So I find myself out in the world again,
Confused at best and at worst, incapacitated.
After the ECT treatments and a month in the hospital,
I'm amazed the events can even be narrated.

So fuzzy are my memories,
And my thoughts so bizarre -
There's no way of telling now
Where I've been and how far...