messes
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For all intents and purposes,
I am a mess,
Like a child's finger painting is art,
And like a child, I'm a little too confident
To be meandering around like I know
Where I'm going
You.
You were a blank page
A compendium of blank pages,
Bound together and stained by the madness of life
To tell a story with rings of coffee and ink,
Or even ashes.
