The melancholy has left me.
My sole inspiration to write.
What now of my pain poetry?
In which all my sadness takes flight.
Must all my words now be of love?
Happiness limits my vocab…
Sullen, my work’s a cut above
Now my words come out plain drab.
Am I condemned to bad writing?
Or eternal melancholy?
Flabbergasted, left wondering…
Will this be my constant folly?