Loveless Poetry

Not madly in love, not devastatingly heartbroken
so what shall fuel my soul now,
what drives me to put pen to paper?
Is there inspiration in other aspects of life
or is it only the heart’s escapades that are worthy of poetic tribute?
Are the rhythms of life,
the sounds of an empty house,
the soft purr of an overweight cat,
the mundaneness of work
worthy of my prose?
Do I put the pen away,
let it collect dust,
pack away the notepads,
put this silly endeavor on a shelf
because my heart is empty?
Or do I learn to write about the quirks of my house,
the colors outside on an autumn day,
the runners I people watch at the lake,
small daily joys witnessed,
or is poetry without love a foolish mistake?

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