In the space between the known and new,
A tender chaos whispers through.
A bridge unbuilt, a path unclear,
The messy middle holds us near.

It’s not the start, with eager fire,
Nor the end, where dreams conspire.
But the muddied ground where growth takes root,
Where struggle hums its quiet flute.

Here, the questions outnumber the facts,
And every step feels like it cracks.
Yet in the breaking, strength is found,
In silence, echoes most profound.

The messy middle is not a waste,
It’s life’s unraveled, sacred taste.
A pause between the now and then,
The moment where we learn to bend.

Not all will see the beauty here,
For it’s wrapped in doubt, and cloaked in fear.
But those who stay, who dare to feel,
Will find the middle starts to heal.

It teaches us the art of wait,
Of holding space for what is fate.
Of trusting things we cannot see,
Of blooming slow, like a patient tree.

The middle’s mess is not your end,
It’s where the broken pieces mend.
So stand, and breathe, and feel the pull—
This messy middle makes you whole.