Mornings

I have nothing To write about anymore So I just lie in bed Attempting to write poems Until my brain Falls out of my half open head And rolls onto the floor Because I’ve had too much Rum, and sad folk songs About highways And being alone Make me want to die At 3:26 am On a Sunday Leaving me to pick up The broken glass And my troubled brain On the floor In the morning With nothing but a poem And a hangover To my name