When I was five,
All that mattered to me was colours;
Not how the humans I drew were alike monkeys,
Nor how the trees looked like humongous flowers.
But today I demand perfection,
From every cell of this existence mine-
I hate how my face is so round,
And my nails are not so fine.
With every dawn and dusk,
We live in a cloud so dark and wet...
Perfection it is called
In itself is so imperfect.
So why does humankind,
Bind itself to the shackles of a thought
That through the falseys of our own minds
Has our entire intelligence bought?
Because even though it perfectly doesn't rhyme,
Life is such a beautiful song!