We toil and slave,
From dawn to dusk,
As we pursue a myth,
A myth in the name of perfection
We become obsessed
That we lose sight of what is real
And what is not
We forget ourselves
In search of a mirage
That disappears the moment we reach it
Perfection is the smoke we see in front of us
We grasp but our hands remain empty
Yet we never learn
That we are perfect in our imperfections
Its our faults that make us unique, special
We run after what we think is ideal, perfect
And we lose ourselves in the process,
Don’t we ever learn?
That perfection is just but a word?
Nothing real
No comments:
Post a Comment