Sadness was only a muse
And now it has gone away

Anger came in second
And it no longer has use

I'm left without muses
In my new happy, little world

Nothing to write about
No hurt, no pain

I thought I'd be happy
To see happiness again

And that is the conundrum,
My friends.

A poet thrives on it,
The sadness, the anger.

They love writing about the hurt and the pain
What do they do when it has left?