A timely problem in writing

A problem arises in writing.
The problem being that I have really nothing to say.
There is nothing really to say about such problems as these
That have left nothing but unfortunately
The really rather bad writing now here.
Here now this writing is meant to release some pain,
Some pain, some suffering,
But what pain, what suffering?
How in all of everything can it help me
When there is nothing in naught and nowhere
that can help this writing?
Attempting to continue is this pursuit
Is quite pointless as mentioned,
Yet the pen is apparently mightier than the sword
And therefore pointing this pen at this paper
Will hopefully slay the problem.
The problem that needs slaying being that very same demon
Descartes faces in daily meditation,
These meditations that serve him so well
And that for me I cannot get my head around.
My head around the problem,
The demon, the creature of altogether such unpleasantness
That its name is a 4 letter word: Love.
Don’t make me say it again.
It’s really rather hurtful,
And it certainly really hurts. Really.
It exists in meditation,
but meditating upon this one realizes
its home lies in matter much cruder than mind.
No this Demon, this problem, rather ancient and more pointless,
(Even than a blunt sword or dry pen,
Or perhaps the point of this writing)
Exists in the heart.
A problem of the heart, not a problem with,
As unfortunately in cases of love
My heart functions fine,
Which of course is strange to me,
Being that it is broken.
Yet though being of this bodily matter it seems not to heal.
Healing takes time, time heals all wounds they say,
But then why is it that in this time,
Incidentally the time being 4.13am,
Why is it that now, 4.14am being now, now why is it that
The wound far older than the minute just gone
Feels newer than it did the minute just after
My heart was broken?
My heart was broken, what feels like only a minute ago.
So you see a problem arises in writing.
There really is a pointlessness to this whole thing,
And no matter how many swords or pens or arrows of time
Are fixated and fired at our own personal demons,
The only things that are certain are these:
Time flies like an arrow, the pen is mightier than the sword,
And no matter how much time I take to write this
there will never be time enough to fix my broken heart.
Never a time for me to be with her,
In a time when things were better.
Better than the times that we have now at least,
- And most certainly better than this writing…