CPoetry

when we rely on others to validate our self-worth, (as a byproduct of their loving us) we are not only using their love incorrectly, we are subsequently loving ourselves incorrectly; we assume the love we have for ourselves is something to be reached for--- something outside of us.      but how can we reach for something      that is already possessed?      how can a rain drop find water      when it holds the ocean inside of it? it is there; your love is possessed. ::: he walks inside shaking the cold off his coat. ---at the ready he grasps a cup of coffee. if it were not too forward, i would ask this gentleman, "i'm curious. i saw a very sweet moment with you and that woman out there and i wanted to know... is that coffee as warm as how you feel when you are with her?" i imagine he would laugh--- even nervously at my approach but maybe, maybe he would answer. he would tel...

i have discovered two pieces of emerald on the surface of the earth. raw, unadulterated mineral formed from the fire of abandonment and the pressure of misguided intentions. their facets have been cut in such a way that any light shown on them bends and refracts outwardly--- brilliantly--- purely in form. i am transfixed. encapsulated by the light of the way in which You look at me; i feel as though it is just i who knows of the rarity i see. ---every time the emeralds catch light, they catch me. You catch me. You have caught me. And You will continue to catch me. ---it is arresting. ::: if love were not hard, its richness would be dehydrated dirt; its fragility would be stonewall; its vulnerability would be isolation from others; its prevalence would be an occasional miracle; its transcendence would be linear; and its holding place for a feeling equivalent to that of reaching Nirvana would be the dust-covered bookshelf of a ...

the needle is dragging its feet across the record, filling the air with rest. the same kind of rest my forehead takes on Yours. there is space between our chests it is cold, but, nothing here is a mistake. what music has sung still sings in this space. everywhere else on You, i cover. any place else on me, You cover. ---this holding onto. ---this rocking back and forth. ---a metronome for a song only love knows how to play. ::: Compassion was the first soldier to die; she walked to the front lines, dropped the general's sword with her hand and said,  I will go. she approached the opposing general and said, I know. We are afraid as well. We miss our loved ones. We want to turn our backs on dying as much as you do. We are tired of being prideful just as you are. Let us help one another. she was beheaded by the general in front of both armies.      as for today,     ...

"sweetheart, listen. when you're in love your heart is not just an extension of your body... unfortunately, it becomes an entirely new sense ." "...and since i know i'm right, i'll get you this one..." hey. yeah um, she'll have a glass of the pino noir. thanks. no, we'll need to keep it open. "...oh and you can't turn it off." "ask anyone who's been in love ever. once you find that sixth sense... you can't not have it again." ::: oh! to want to kiss a stranger! to want to laugh in public at the expense of no joke! to see children playing at the playground and agree with them saying, "me too! me too!" the coffee is still brewing in a way      as it was yesterday.      this tile floor is still square-and-tile      tile-and-square, but      i stand keeled over with stomach pains      of joy.    i am a grown adult laughing ...

this rose is silk-felt and was touched by the red fingerprint of a love so old time itself could not distinguish its age. this rose began as a rose seed. then becoming a rose stem. then becoming a thorny rose stem. then becoming a rose bud. unsurprisingly becoming a rose bulb waiting to bloom. for the entirety of its growth, the rose always knew it would become a rose. yet, it has thorns on its stem. if this rose knew of its beauty to come, why feel the need to protect itself? ---so this rose could feel safe. it is said not all roses bloom in the rose garden. those that do bloom have no thorns; a special few told themselves as youthful rose stems, they will never need thorns. the rarest few told themselves, "if i get hurt, i will grow thorns, but i will learn i too, can cut them off." ::: 2/24/18 dear journal. look i know i won't. and i can't. i'm learning that the best love you can give is a love that respects anot...