People are always obsessed with being perfect on the outside. They give little importance to the beauty inside. In this poem I have taken the example of an old book and compared it with the idea of "perfection" as perceived by the human mind.

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Folded corners, chipped ends and half ripped pages.

All traits that point out the horrid in it.

But does that decide its virtue?

Or does it justify the worth?

A book still remains a book.

Those that are lousier are paraded in galleries.

Dirty and worn out from use over the years. Shredding wisdom with each shredding page,

To the vast generations of its readers.

Eon after eon.

But the beauty inside,

The knowledge it owns is boundless.

Why then do you want to be perfect on the outside?

While you could be so much more happier and thriving within.

By Deepthi Monteiro

From: India

Instagram: deepthimonteiro