Learn more about other poetry terms

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.
Subscribe to messes