Monday, December 21, 2015

Vanity

I see such vanity in poems about true love:
I love you despite what you have done to me, how you have hurt me.
I love you so much I would do anything for you; I love you so much I would die for you.
I love you and I need to have you by my side because I am incomplete without you. 
I love you and I will make it known to you over and over that I love you, even though you don't want to hear it.
I love you and I will remain here loving you forever, even though I only ever make you miserable.
I love you and I declare my love publicly so everyone knows I love you, and that you are cruel and heartless for not loving me.
I love you and you must know it, you must accept it, you must appreciate it, and eventually you will reciprocate.
I love you and I know you better than you do, I know that this is love, this is true love.
No.

That is not true love. That is not love at all.

Every word you've written is about you, not her. That is narcissism. You seek to take love from her, not give it to her.

Let me tell you a little bit about love:
Love is a quiet flame that burns softly, lighting the darkest places with its sweet, warm glow. 
Love is hope. Love is freedom. Love is respect. 
Love takes pleasure in knowing the object of its attention is happy, wherever she is and whoever she is with.
Love soothes your longing heart, because love has no desire to possess her. Simply loving her is enough.
Why do you write such lies about love, and share them for the world to see, when you could share the truth?

If your readers learn to understand so little about love, how can they ever offer it to another?



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