By Zaynah Suhail
"I'm not perfect," you say,
And all I can think is,
How can you not be perfect when you are literal art?
Your eyes, twin cosmos, vast and deep,
Where stars and planets endlessly sleep.
Your voice, like the sound of an ocean,
Serene, calm, and soothing.
Your hair, a masterpiece, a work of art,
Like sunbeams dancing, strands of grace.
You are someone who is a poem in yourself,
Someone a poet would write millions of poems about,
Someone who is an artist's muse,
The heart of art.
You are made by the creator of this world.
How can you claim to be imperfect
When you are like all the phases of the moon,
Complete, incomplete, or absent from the night sky?
How can you claim to be imperfect
When you love the sunset and the sunrise,
No matter how they appear?
You were created by the Creator of the heavens and the Earth,
Who created this cosmos and every atom of it with utmost perfection.
So how do you claim to be imperfect?
You are perfect,
No matter what!