No Ode to Ordinary

How hard it is to write a poem with no love and no heartache.
The two trademarks of art and I have neither.
Anything in between is average, dull.
No sonnets were written about the guy who never texted back.
No masterpieces were made with a heart full of just friends.
It is so hard to write with this mediocre disposition.
With no epic love and no woes, one can hardly expect me to write a poem.
Am I supposed to write an ode to my dog, the only male in my life?
Or perhaps to my coffee addiction, at least I can call it "Joe."
How difficult it is to be artistic when I am still living with my parents.
If you were expecting poetry, I am sorry.
I have no ode to ordinary.