I want to write poetry
But there's nothing left to write with
I'm drained
Empty
I don't feel right and everything's a blur
So sorry to disappoint
But I've got nothing for you
No sir
All I've got
Are infected lungs
And swollen eyes
Shaking hands
And stomach butterflies
It's not conducive to poetry
But who knows
Maybe
I can come up with something
Short and sweet
That would
Perhaps
Be my greatest feat
Of all time
