I can smell the rotting of my bed sheets and the mold in the air.
this is the furthest thing from poetic because none of this is beautiful.
I thought my life was going to bloom into something great and now my room at home rots like fruit, and my parents complaints reveal themselves like seeds, telling me to go plant myself something.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
I can smell the rotting of my bed sheets and the mold in the air.
this is the furthest thing from poetic because none of this is beautiful.
I thought my life was going to bloom into something great and now my room at home rots like fruit, and my parents complaints reveal themselves like seeds, telling me to go plant myself something.