03-27-2014, 04:26 AM
I wonder about this metaphorical blood. It seems a very easy phrase for emos and amateur tragics to toss off but, like most of their abstractions, it lacks any actual depth. Just like a poem isn't a poem just because you label it so, writing poetry isn't only a painful experience that causes your soul to bleed in crimson and black and Doc Martins.
But what would I know? I'm sitting on a chair that I call a potato.
But what would I know? I'm sitting on a chair that I call a potato.
It could be worse
