emotion dump -rf

-rf as in a geeky way;
to say make it
Recursive and
Force anything
that might stop
or slow it down.

just let the words
flow, just let it go,
don't look back,
don't look forward,
don't look at all -
just all this crap
in my mind stop-
ping me from
accomplishing
anything of sub-
stance and you
know my stance
on love and what
it should be, but
like poetry maybe
love is ultimately
useless on its own -
it has to be mixed with
all the other stuff to make
it palatable, good enough to
go down and nourish us.

emotion dump.
long time for
one of these
for me as i
pretend that
it's all ok and
i'm not some
crazy messed
up individual
that doesn't
fit into any
of this world
as we know
it now and now
and then i think
it's gonna be ok
and deep down i
know it will but in
the meantime, i
wonder why and
when and if i'm
doomed to that
again. the poet
is misunderstood
in today's society
and you can say
it's just a pity party,
but i'm tired of the
things that ARE
looked up at in
this country, in
this world, on
this planet at
this time. the
dreamers are
looked down on
and marginalized
and so often so alone
that no one notices
anymore and the
floor drops out
from under me
sometimes and
i fall and fall and
it's peaceful in a
sense, but i know
i'm gonna hit the
bottom soon and
then i get tense and
it all starts over again.

the words, the words,
these words that are
but aren't me. the ability
to transfer these words
to you - my thoughts to
you - my mind to you -
you'd think that would
be incredibly sexy - the
ability to feel emotions
and communicate but
it turns out no one really
wants that crap. no one
really wants poetry or the
poet - just a temporary
infatuation with that that
is different - like passing
a freak show and getting
your dollar fifty out to see
the bearded woman or the
man with breasts.

so tired of these words
but i know i can't let go
of them.

and fuck the words i lost,
the words i had stolen. i
no longer claim them. i
no longer think about
them. i almost have
begun to hate them,
that past me prattling
on and on like it meant
something - the current
me rambling on and on
like it actually means
anything.

and the stress is getting to me.
trying to change the world is no easy
thing. and maybe i'm kidding myself
that i can pull this off, that it's getting
better, that i can hold out for just a
little longer and something will
just happen to make it all ok ...
not again 'cause it's never
really been all ok. probably
never will be, but i wonder
if i must endure this planet
one more day on my own -
so many wanting to say
they know me or think
they know me but it's
just my words, just
these fucking words
coming out now - real,
live, no stopping, no
stalling - and these
words are me, but
they're all there is
to me maybe and
when people do
get close because
of the words, because
of my mind, they see the
real me in the real world and
run away or change the game
and the words are me, this
poem is me, but not many,
not any that i've found, are
able to comprehend that
giving myself out like this,
via poetry, via words, via
thoughts and dreams -
that doing this doesn't
make me some cool,
hip cat with all the answers.
i don't even know the questions
anymore. here i am, though,
letting the world fall in love
with my words, my mind
but not the whole package -
the totality of me. and at this
point i don't want to become a
bitter old man. i don't want to
change for someone. i want
to be me, be these poems
you see, and have someone
accept me for me in totality.
and the reality hovers on the
horizon but it's a reality that
isn't me. it just isn't me.

this poem is me.
this poem is my
mind at the moment,
my dumping of all the
shit flying around my
mind as i shout at
the sky, "why?, why? why!??"

what remains is a shell of a man
going through the motions as the
fantasy world in his mind begins to
collapse and he wonders if he can
hold onto it much longer. and if you
think it's bullshit and i'm just feeling
sorry for myself there's nothing i can
say to you. nothing i can write to you.
nothing i can do
anymore.

not looking for a whore.
not looking for a bore.
not looking for rhymes
not looking for ...

yeah. it's almost all out,
almost all gone. and i
sometimes wonder,
like right now, if i
finish the poem
will i cease to
be? will i be
free to see
who i am
finally?

i think i understand love,
but apparently i don't.
i must have some
warped idea of
what love is or
could be, what
it should be. and
i'm tired of everything.

emotion dump in a
geeky way - a curtained
sense of self - now opened.

for just a moment.
soon to close again.

time will continue.

it's not the end of
the world although
sometimes it feels
like just that.

tired of this existence i
sometimes want to
stand on a mountain
and let loose a howl
like the planet has
never heard before.

let it all go,
let it all go,
let it all go,
slowly now...

i am kpaul.

i am a man.

i like women.

i fall for women
too much - too hard -
too fast.

i am unique.

i am lonely.

i am human.

i am alive.

i am (not) normal.

i am a poet.

i am (simply) a poem.