I can no longer be a poet,
For I feel no anguish deep in my soul.
There is no two timing lover,
Nor bruises marring my heart.

And there is nothing here to startle you,
I offer no sting to make you feel alive.
There is no vicarious pleasure to be had in these words.

I cannot lament missing voicemails,
Or rage against machinations,
There is no more fodder for my word press.


Now I only sigh over ***** dishes,
Or anticipate primetime television.
My heart flutters for clean sheets.

So I cannot help you cry,
Because I fell in love
And so I must retire.