I have exhausted the adjectives.

The metaphors.

This language.

The poems are innumerable.

The sonnets.

The stanzas.

I have grown weary of words.

What a poor citadel

they have provided me.

I tire of the implications.

They will never be sufficient.

They have become bereft of honesty.

No more surrogate songs.

I can't write anymore parallels.

The innuendos have diminished me.

If you do not know by now,

surely you never will.