Four times in its opening lines, the speaker asks how something can be done, and four times the question carries its own answer. How can I write with no words? How can I sing with no voice? Each line sets an activity beside the thing it depends on, then takes that thing away. These are not real questions but verdicts. The last pairing, "How can I create / With no creativity?", is the bleakest, because the list has moved from outside tools (an instrument) to the inner capacity itself. The speaker has stopped losing things an artist owns and started losing what an artist is.
Then comes "How can I? / How can I?", two short lines with every excuse stripped away. It sounds like someone repeating a sentence because nothing else will come. The whole poem leans on this kind of repetition. It is free verse, with no regular rhyme, no steady metre, and lines of uneven length that sound like speech broken into breaths. That lack of ornament suits a speaker who says there is "nothing left." One sound pattern does surface near the end, in the trio "rest," "sleep," "weep." Each is a wish, and "sleep" and "weep" chime as the poem's only clear rhyme. The sound settles at the moment the speaker admits to wanting everything to stop.
The middle of the poem widens from the self to the world, but it does so vaguely. "The world is crazy," the speaker says, then three lines begin with the same word: "Everything is gone / Everything is different / Everything has changed." "Everything" is so large a word that it explains nothing. The poem never says what changed, and that vagueness can be read as honesty, since exhaustion rarely arrives with a tidy list of causes. What the text gives us is the feeling of total change, not its source.
A quieter shift happens in the verbs. Early on the speaker cannot write, sing, play or create, all acts of making. Later the word becomes "perform," which means making on demand, for someone watching. Words like "expect," "expected" and "pressure" support this. The real weight may lie less in the loss of creativity than in the demand that it be displayed. Then the poem turns on its reader: "For who? / For you?" Suddenly we are the audience being accused. The next line, "Because it's definitely not for me," has a blunt, conversational edge, and the word "definitely" sounds almost sulky. Art has come loose from the person making it and now belongs to everyone but her or him.
Conventional imagery is scarce. There is no weather, no landscape, no natural world. The one physical image is that "the exhaustion has hit me," which makes tiredness a blow. The other pattern is movement: "go on," "moving forward," "nowhere left to go." The ending turns this against itself. The speaker is told to keep travelling, but the road has been taken away just as words and voice were. Punctuation fades in the same direction. The question marks that punctuate the opening thin out, and the last two lines, though they are questions, close with no mark at all. The poem trails off into silence instead of finishing.
What gives the poem its force is its refusal to console. There is no turn toward hope, no sunrise, no lesson. It stays inside a state many students will recognise, being worn out by expectation, whether in art, school or anything else where we are asked to keep producing. There is also a quiet irony. A speaker with "no words" and "no voice" has made a poem out of both. I would read this as a possibility the poem leaves open, not as a comfort it offers, because the speaker never notices the contradiction. Perhaps this is what remains when everything else has gone: not a performance for anyone, only a few plain lines saying how tired the speaker is.