Arcadia

36

Poetry comes easier these days. Flashes of empty words that mean something, sometimes. Words don't bleed any more, not like they used to. Words aren't supposed to bleed either, they are only meant to beautify, meant for best parts of the soul, to express your mastery over the language that was never really yours.

Words aren't meant to bleed, not any more - that is from another time, a simpler one, where it was okay to feel. A time before they called you beautiful, a time before the pretty lies. People change, like seasons. And like seasons, they don't come back. So you might have loved that one person someone was sometime, like you loved that summer last year, but you don't owe them anything anymore. That's okay. Moments are like the fleeting loves of poets, like summer storms that fly you away, and even though it always ends up in dust, it's worth it, as long as you have a song to sing. That's all you'll ever learn to care about, anyway.

Words don't bleed, so you do. You bleed and you burn, but the tears never come. So here you are, neither here nor really there, stuck in a paradox, left with the flashy, empty words you call poetry, though they all sound the same. They don't mean anything, because you don't have anything to say. You never have anything to say. That's okay. Poetry was always easier.