Tomato Soup

“Blood is only blood, after all.”
So. Pour it down the sink,
Pour it on the desert floor,
Pour it on the bones of a man
Dead for a thousand years.

I wrote that poem after pouring a bowl of disgusting tomato soup down the sink. I was feeling pretty down anyway, but the soup just finished things off. It meant I actually had to cook. Still, is there any excuse for something that sounds so teen angsty? It's still something I'm struggling with. I suppose the answer is just to keep reading, to understand how other people express these things.

Tired tonight,

B.