#insensitivity
The troughs of her wavy hair,
perfectly fitted the grip of his fist.
The more he pulled,
the shorter they grew.
Loved to paint the walls,
with the anything she cooked.
Everyone's got a way to express love,
well not like others his way was a little rough.
He said "I'll love you until I die",
ironically his love was the reason of her demise.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 9:14 AM UTC
You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch
You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened ...
You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching ...
You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,
as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted ...
Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme. Keywords/Tags: ears, hearing, listening, eyes, blindness, unseeing, unawareness, insensitivity, rain, stars, lightning, thunder
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 1:02 AM UTC
In angel training we had an app…
a mantra… koan-kinda thingy doo
mathematical as hell and **** turning to asterisks
via iIiantelligent sorting, artfully done, for fun
in 2019 social mediumsaxin' all deniro
is who human?
A sort rant on the worth of living
right. Like a cog ona wheel in a wheel…
An I'll go all-gonwritmic see-quence be
gun, go-ho word's
heir of airborn ranger danger
war minded old man
traits- message
messenger
sent
Sorting by likeness to true blue,
in Tengri- iteration of waiting-is
come and see
If, one sure
must not ignor rule, exists,
it may be this, here, my realm
life goes on until you quit functioning
automatical-ish, like magic
the words appear and
you're not, dear reader, near if
it seems
I'm right
enough
alone, or not.
life goes on.
Right. Otherwise, it doesn't. And we
are idle words affecting
whether patterns in
random fandom of
AI whet-dreams, with an edge on
effectual stretchings of the old
imagineer's skin in the game.
Deep id, kid. You ever imagine war?
You can do that here,
it's a game. My side won.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
We tagged him Candle Sticks,
Called him that
When he was six.
Snot oozed down
Around his lips.
It was one of those taunts
That seamlessly sticks.
When he ran in the race,
He finished dead last;
His pants fell down,
Exposing the ***
Of a hometown clown.
Many times I'd see him
Standing in the movie line,
Taking his aisle seat.
Or stocking butter and cheese
In the dairy case at Foodland;
Or under the bridges,
On a bench, watching the freighters
Power on to foreign cities;
Smiling at the fishermen casting their lines.
I think I saw him cry,
In the library, reading the local paper
In a secluded carrel.
I heard he walked to the Bridge,
And jumped.
Candle Sticks.
It stuck.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC
Flower people,
frolicking on the moon,
Smiling wide eyed with honest jest.
How did they grow without soil, water,
or air? Roses out of concrete defying social constructs.
Follow the flower people.
Show them you give a **** about the delicacy they expel
Reject your insensitivity and care about someone else.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 9:16 PM UTC
In an aside at the pub the other day,
I commented that the hockey player
Looked like a French-Canadian.
I was called a racist for that.
(but he did)
While watching some Miss Pageant
With her the other night,
I commented that all the women
Are beautiful enough to be crowned.
Now I'm a sexist.
(they were gorgeous)
For the sake of argument, I am a religionist.
I'm against Jihads, but I'm not Jihadist.
I don't go goo goo over babies,
So I suspect someone will say I'm an infantist.
She texted, saying she wants to fix the fight.
Well, I am a pugilist,
And I know when the fight's been fixed.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
I wholeheartedly wish you good luck in endeavors I'd rather you wouldn't attempt. I'm absolutely oozing with selfless insensitivity.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 7:26 AM UTC
I’ve got to **** her to prove I’m worth the time—
that she doesn’t need that other job
and that she wants to be with me.
I’ve got to **** her,
so she knows that I’m a man,
a person worth relationship;
that can please her any time,
and pleasures looking good.
I’ve got to **** her so she’ll stay with me,
and love no other men,
to keep her love as strong as now.
Love is always mad.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
Seek refuge in the soul
When ousted from all shelters
Life spilled out in the open
For all to make a mockery
The one’s who have enough problems
Laziness to mind one’s own fort
Gathered here to tear down
All the little sanctity you have left
Talking about morals
Spreading the pathetic immorality
Trying to **** you to the nadir
Carrying wide chasms themselves
Standing far apart from heart and soul
Never to meet in this lifetime
They take a plunge into the unknown
To chastise the outer world
Souls are on fire, heart’s chambers locked
Suffocating within
With all the billowing smoke
Creating a haze around the behavior
Anger fuels the raging inferno
Urging everyone around to burn you
Surrounded by an unkind world
Seek refuge in your soul
Safe haven from the raging insensitivities
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
A dancer’s world is brimming with mirrors
So that you can identify the flaws
And meticulously correct them.
I saw that I was too fat, repulsive,
My leotard stretched too tight
Across rounded plains of skin,
I tried to correct it.
Thinner, thinner,
I said.
Better
Better.
One day
A collection of voices
Paid me a holiday visit.
They liked it so much
They never went home.
I don’t know why they liked it
All they ever did was shout at me
And tell me I wasn’t good enough
And make an insecure monster out of me.
They chewed me word by word and swallowed.
I asked to be left but they never repacked their suitcases.
I never meant to be a murderer, death’s employee
Not even when I was killing did I intend it
It was all accidental, I swear, honestly.
But even that won’t convince me
To stop washing off the blood -
Maroon aura blooming
And blooming until
Washing, washing,
I thought the
Stain got
Smaller.
Not.
'wait a minute shall we not dissect further and twist the scalpel and tease apart sinews until they're all just science and shall we not draw diagrams and observe the peculiarities of their ways and shall we not uncover their biology and their phycology and investigate a hypothesis without coming to a conclusion shall we not forget their humanity write them down as chemicals and failed reactions and have done with it shall we not turn impersonal and...
sorry, I forgot they were people.'
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
I have studied **** Germany
Someone stood and preached to me
All the ‘important’ names
All the ‘important’ dates
I wrote them down like longshore secrets
And debated over them
Like they were the pencil sharpenings
With which I littered the floor
‘Excellent analysis’ she said
I have even stood by the gas chambers
And the gallows
At Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp
And written insensitive poetry about insensitivity
But have I heard of Hans Litten?
Of course I haven’t.
I have stood in the Berlin gestapo office
And formed philosophies that feel more like profanities
Wondering how it can ever be appropriate
To take a school trip to a genocide
But tonight my ‘important’ education
Feels like the greatest atrocity
My guilty ignorance beats almost unbearably
Around my rib-cage
And waits for the shatter and the shards
Because I have never heard of Hans Litten
We all know six million
But who knows the six million?
We remember names that we stored away
Because mentioning them in an essay
Might bring about a higher grade
Displaying ‘a highly developed and complex level of understanding’
We remember names like we remember shopping lists
Or science lessons;
A few particular points
No attachment necessary
In fact, clinical detachment is far more becoming
When it comes to essay questions
They never told us about Hans Litten
Or about the men who also ran in the race to be in history books
Or about their mothers
And their fathers
And the people they shared cells with
And the people they shared graves with
My God, they never told us about Hans Litten
And Hans Litten is better known
Than most of those phantom dead
Those cracked-open voices that dared to raise
Until they were too loud for anything but the conveyer-belt
Concentration Camp system.
And the thing is that six million is not such a big number anymore
Because there are 49,506,514 views of Simon Cowell crying
And nearly 300 million of One Direction singing a song which is not so beautiful after all
And people are so desensitized to the number six million
That they believe that the world
Would not have enough **** in it
Without them posting hatred after obscenity after hatred in the YouTube comments
And Hans Litten, I can’t help feeling that I’ve failed you
My generation could tell you the private lives of their idols
But would not know your name
And we will still pour into school on Monday morning
And chorus our tireless fatigue and our lack of motivation for life
And I will still pour into school on Monday morning
And let myself complain and moan and grapple for sympathy.
I’ve acquired this abstracted self-loathing recently
That is less a hatred of myself than a hatred of what I have made of myself
Of my ingratitude and self-centred inability
To compose poems that do not start and end with Me
And of my procrastination and my ceaseless desire
To live something other than the life I’ve been given
Like I asked for extra cheese and got given Margharita
****
I’m insufferable.
Hans Litten your list of injuries was ten times longer
than the list of all the wrongs I’ve had done against me.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
With a quill over paper
For muse, we are excavators
We pour out our hearts
So joy, love, peace to impart
To hold a torch over emotional darkness
To fill each others hollowness
Its for the love we write
When we write
We are called poets
A name fitting and right
But your theft just says you are mentally poor
Reducing you further to a mere thief
And nothing close to a P
Not to talk of a poet.
The moon is not a thing you can steal
Trust me its pure folly
That's a dumb idea to conceive
Posting others' poems
Posting like a poet?
Like seriously
How does that sound to 'your' hearing?
DUMB
Even so, to even dare, you must be too dumb to realize its dumb
To acknowledge is not so hard
Its just adding one more line on your pad
I want to deceive myself that you are not too dumb to know that
If you didn't know, now you do.
PS: You could post my poem
That does not make you a poet
It just makes you a thief
Suffice it to say, the worst kind
Without robbing me of the fact that I'm a POET
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC