What to write about?

Should I speak of my love?
It's continued development,
The lessons learned and hurts hastily covered with blue coloured bandaids and a kiss?
A favoured topic to be sure.

Shall I rhyme about lust?
Love's charm without the rust,
Your soft body beneath me a must,
That this need will fade, unjust.
Once departed, lacking love, this passion returns to dust.

What is left?

Hate does not touch me,
Not in this country,
Not in my city of cherry blossoms and sunshine,
Or darkly overcast skies coupled with soft misting rain. (Depression?)
Not today!

Death is a foreign entity.
I am not unsullied,
Yet I do think much more of this ***** than as life's bratty little sister.
Necessary,
Which may one day grow into something beautiful to be admired,
But for now is nothing more than crayons coloured outside of the lines.

I guess I should not write at all.

For what worth is there to put pen to paper,
(Finger to touch screen),
When my muse is silently humming a tune to which only she knows the words?
I can hear the rhythm,
My blood pulses with it's beat,
But I cannot glean the meaning.

Therefore I am done,
For this poem is about nothing.