A mess is what I have always known.
As a kid chocolate over my mouth,
My hands In mud with not a care in this world.
As a child ink all over my hands,
With giggles and cries in my mouth.
All those messes were mine to love,
And my mother's to clean.
Now I am a 16 year old mess,
With bleeding wrist and tired heart,
With red eyes and painful cries.
Filling the eternal pot with tears,
The pot which defines the world so dear.
The unheard cries, fills my ears.
Little do they know it lead to the fear ,
That fear of being a mess so rare.
The fear of not fitting in,
The fear of being alone.
The fear of being stood up every dusk and dawn.
But the greatest fear was , of getting lost in being a rare mess.
The mess recognized by everyone,
Yet lost in the process.
The process of peeling chocolate filled giggles.
The process of making castles of sand.
The process of venting the tension filled ranting,
The process of dreaming with open eyes
The eyes once closed by the bloodless dyes.
I was lost in the process,
Of being better,
Of being human,
And most importantly of being myself.
- MANINI, 3:07, 05th may 2018.
