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"desensitized" poems
1995 saw the start of Generation Z, the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology, Millennial 2.0, caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones. They say we’re adaptable, but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything. They say that we don’t care about anything except for our tiny little screens, but they forget who put them in our hands, and they forget who they run to for help when they forget how to troubleshoot. They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age, Caught in a crossfire because Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006, the only difference between two decades being how much neon versus how much chrome, and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was. We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember, and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001. Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September. I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings. The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life. We are always fighting— fighting for everything. Human equality, posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living. None of us are older than 21, under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country. We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion, the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in. Fairytales. Generation Z. The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology, the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health, Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes, who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade. We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces. They say we’re too sensitive, but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized. And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
0
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
generation Z
1995 saw the start of Generation Z, the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology, Millennial 2.0, caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones. They say we’re adaptable, but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything. They say that we don’t care about anything except for our tiny little screens, but they forget who put them in our hands, and they forget who they run to for help when they forget how to troubleshoot. They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age, Caught in a crossfire because Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006, the only difference between two decades being how much neon versus how much chrome, and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was. We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember, and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001. Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September. I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings. The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life. We are always fighting— fighting for everything. Human equality, posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living. None of us are older than 21, under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country. We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion, the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in. Fairytales. Generation Z. The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology, the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health, Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes, who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade. We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces. They say we’re too sensitive, but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized. And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
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39
Her shadow Washed in sin, covered in blood Oh, what a sad little dove Festering secrets, slathered in shame Purity poisoned, life to blame Born unwanted, a mother denies Behind the shadow of our eyes His shadow In dynamics Of dysfunctional dismay Lost in secret family shame These emotional contacts delay That we carry 'til the end of our days Cast in stone, in foundation of lies All these shadows behind our eyes Her pain Painful memories of long ago Though, I know, I must let go Triggers upon the aching scars That burns within an injured heart Full of fear, in the wake of lies All behind the shadow of our eyes His pain An unending twitch The fast fading smile The ever bleeding heart Of a broken lost child Carrying stones up endless hills All these issue we're forced to feel And stuff them down, way down inside Behind the shadow of our eyes Her darkness Hidden is a blacken variant Attached with unbreakable sealant Of life's destiny, from the gods Concealed amid, evolved facades A mind, compartmentalized Behind the shadow of our eyes His darkness Desensitized to life, empathy left poor Bottomless abyss where my spirit now soars Love is a dream in my abandoned role The pieces won't fit my wandering soul.... The window to a soul hides Behind the Shadow of our Eyes
0
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
Behind the Shadow of our Eyes (Collaboration with Traveler Tim)
Tragedy isn't even very tragic anymore
0
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC
Desensitized
I’m not empty. It’s not that I don’t feel anything. The exact opposite. I feel so much. So much I get desensitized to my own emotions. They flow around like water in every corner of my body. Mixing in with my blood until there is no cell untouched. It used to be a gentle lake. But now It’s an ocean. So all I can do is sit here and pretend that I’m a puddle. Just like everyone else.
0
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
Being A Puddle
Its hard to not to forget that they tortured our memory motivated by pain no motivated by love love for the living we are trying to reach the living those sensitive to nature still not desensitized by the construction of whiteness trying to reach those uninterrupted by the temporary dominance desperation pretending to be evolution hearts beating apathy to death hysterical neglect of our trauma native tint in our eyes take our minds back from the product whose profits are imperialism give them back to dancing revolution starts in the movement of the hips a cou de tat of sway no one knows what you are no matter how confident they seem dance with your eyes closed looking deep inside do not get stuck in its reflection the hysterical reflection dance like every military just surrendered into our hearts the living are with you now can you feel them in your sway
0
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC
hearts beating apathy to death
BANG; another kid, another life another dark toned baby taken away for no real reason another mother mourns over her proudest accomplishment gone another brother cries when he passes that street corner another sister says nothing... she is desensitized from last week's loss BANG; a different kid, a different life
0
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
bang
Guys with long hair have agendas. And if they don't, they're stoners and 'agenda' a really long word, man. Guys with long hair are the poetic types with acoustic guitars and incense in their dorm room and they hold their hair back with a pen behind their ear and they use it to write in a leather-bound journal about girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** so they can pick up more girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** Guys with long hair are the metalheads who sit in the back of class and use their hair to distract from the fact that they're wearing poor-quality ironic headphones that project Alice in Chains to everyone within a four-desk radius but no one's going to say anything because hey, that guy's a creep. Guys with long hair are the classical types that play expensive instruments and have beautiful eyes that you can't see very often and have to keep ponytail elastics on their wrists, their wrists that never stop moving, conducting, tapping, curling, because Chopin slows for no man, no matter how long his locks. And if you poured all these guys with long hair in a test tube and melted them until the agendas broke and forged and changed colors, you'd have him. I found him in a smoky sweet basement in a house where everyone belongs but no one should actually live. I braided his shoulder-brushing hair without asking and saw his smile like a chunk of snow the size of your high school falling off a mountain, fast and white, huge and more important than anything else around. I found him again in a different basement where only musicians belong. He invited me into the closet with the piano and it's like he asked me to crawl inside his head and hang out for a while. He casually mentioned his favorite angry bands while his fingers brushed keys in an order they seemed to know on their own, tendons and strings. He says things that deserve to be handwritten in leather-bound journals. He holds your wrist with one hand when you shake the other because people have become desensitized to handshakes and don't feel the human contact of it anymore. He hugs to the right because you're supposed to hug heart-to-heart. "People are going to judge based on what they see anyway. Might as well make sure they're right, sort of."
0
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
guys with long hair
Guys with long hair have agendas. And if they don't, they're stoners and 'agenda' a really long word, man. Guys with long hair are the poetic types with acoustic guitars and incense in their dorm room and they hold their hair back with a pen behind their ear and they use it to write in a leather-bound journal about girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** so they can pick up more girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** Guys with long hair are the metalheads who sit in the back of class and use their hair to distract from the fact that they're wearing poor-quality ironic headphones that project Alice in Chains to everyone within a four-desk radius but no one's going to say anything because hey, that guy's a creep. Guys with long hair are the classical types that play expensive instruments and have beautiful eyes that you can't see very often and have to keep ponytail elastics on their wrists, their wrists that never stop moving, conducting, tapping, curling, because Chopin slows for no man, no matter how long his locks. And if you poured all these guys with long hair in a test tube and melted them until the agendas broke and forged and changed colors, you'd have him. I found him in a smoky sweet basement in a house where everyone belongs but no one should actually live. I braided his shoulder-brushing hair without asking and saw his smile like a chunk of snow the size of your high school falling off a mountain, fast and white, huge and more important than anything else around. I found him again in a different basement where only musicians belong. He invited me into the closet with the piano and it's like he asked me to crawl inside his head and hang out for a while. He casually mentioned his favorite angry bands while his fingers brushed keys in an order they seemed to know on their own, tendons and strings. He says things that deserve to be handwritten in leather-bound journals. He holds your wrist with one hand when you shake the other because people have become desensitized to handshakes and don't feel the human contact of it anymore. He hugs to the right because you're supposed to hug heart-to-heart. "People are going to judge based on what they see anyway. Might as well make sure they're right, sort of."
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9
My problem is that I don't follow my intuition, even though it always comes to fruition. It took me some time to really you down. You had my head spinning, round and round. Ignoring the clues and the giant red flags. I still blame myself for everything you did that was bad. I trusted you with secrets, bit by bit. Was it all just too much for you? So, you had to split? Why should I feel guilty for being ignored? I'm the only one wondering, should I have done more. But that's the whole point of your fun and games. You emotionally strung me along like I was shackled in chains.   How many times have I apologized, for you hurting me because you're emotionally desensitized?
0
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
...Dealing with YOU...
It isn't a game. But one can definitely lose. There are no competitors. Yet self comparisons fog hind sight. Leading to more dreary backroads that the world forgot about. It was fun for a little while. Telling yourself that you threw away the world and not vise versa. Was truly the greatest lie. One that grew into actual belief for a time. But found that the greatest hell. Is watching your paradise burn. Bound only by disbelief. Dumbfounded. It's a shame that when you lose everything. Somehow your mind is the only thing that stays intact.     As if those aspects were programmed into humans in preparation for it.. And happiness got the short end of the stick. Then to further rub dirt into the wound we create hope. By means of pursuit. Shakespeare knew the questions. And left it up to everyone else to answer. Only as generations pass. We couldnt be further from any resemblance of an answer. Let alone know the question has already been proposed. Writers play with this notion and yield no two pairs alike. Lifes most important knowledge sadly can only come from experiencing it. But with the world in such a desensitized state. The fear of stagnation is becoming the only real possibility. Preposterous? No Predetermined the moment we chose to let others choose for us. There is no freedom. Only sacrifice. Right.
0
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 4:22 AM UTC
Further
I cultivated the land Make offerings of grass to god No reward from above My brother gives him a lamb Receives holly reward Abel come to field I have something for you Violence is rampant Media highlights deaths Killers makes history Fingers are pointed Desensitized people This is our culture of violence Rise up against me Talk out of place I will destroy you, your family, your place You are just 1 more impaled I take pleasure from you pain 80000 dead Viad rules you Violence is rampant Media highlights deaths Killers makes history Fingers are pointed Desensitized people This is our culture of violence Take them from their land Whip them make them your own I am your master sitting on a throne Thousands will die to see the light Mr. Lincoln slavery is our right Your blood is needed time to fight Violence is rampant Media highlights deaths Killers makes history Fingers are pointed Desensitized people This is our culture of violence Now go and shoot up the schools **** innocent children Lets look at the problem Violence has been normalized Indifference to death Shots ring out, who cares, one more is dead Violence is rampant Media highlights deaths Killers makes history Fingers are pointed Desensitized people This is our culture of violence Stop all the killings This is our culture of violence Stop all the killings This is our culture of violence Stop all the killings This is our culture of violence ------------------- Written By Victor Timmons
0
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Culture of violence
Changing faces for nameless places Nameless people struggling for existence in a nameless time Worship the incoherent ramblings Of countless babbling nameless fools Bread and water lead the lambs to slaughter Prejudice injustice demanding obedience Nameless zombies Becoming the robotic puppet Of the puppeteers desires With pre-programmed responses Feelings not your own Desensitized children Of a race of morbid loving junkies We render them fearless, then cry At the mass of chaos they invoke upon us Lost leading the lost Devouring the beauty in their paths The scourge of the free man Who lives under the delusion of his freedom Prisoners all While the power sits upon a high throne laughing Unbelieving how simply they all fell And obediently they continue to provide The avenues of deception for his rich existence © Crystal Erickson   11/24/2007
0
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Nameless
O America, wake up from your dream. Your top of the hill Perception. I plead, awake. Awaken from your false beliefs, your Warped view of the world. Believing it is yours to buy and Consume, while others starve. O America, I see your shadow, Cast over your deprived. A desperate Attempt to hide the desperate, The lost and the depraved. The waste of your creation, Left to wallow in the filth of Your existence. The broken Pieces of your people. Invisible to your people. O America, I see your wretched youth. Apathetic and sadistic, desensitized by Your lifestyle.  Enslaved by your media to buy any which way. Your whorish children, your joke of a generation. Raised like cattle in shameful schools, reared in Broken homes. Self destructive and stupid. O America, turn off your television prophets, Preaching their gospel of guilt in exchange for Credit card numbers. Bastardizing science And teaching bigotry. Protesting human rights and feeding fallacies, Indoctrinating children with fearful remorse. Extorting their sheep to build their steeples, Making sin out of human nature. O America, I pray, Wake up from your nightmare. Before you collapse upon yourself, before You're swallowed by your unfeedable mouth. Arise, before you die. Cut the strings that Manipulate you like a puppet. Reject society, The cultural cancer. O state of damnation, awake.
0
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
O America
A rain of bullets hit Las Vegas, leaving blacken skies From disgraceful clouds of a loose cannon. From the first 911 call to storm's demise 72 minutes downfall took human companions. For them, life for one minute enjoying country songs In the unbridled company of each others innocence. Then good faith served the merry goers wrong As the concert venue became the tomb of dissonance. It hurts my heart to follow this story unfold Of the climbing death toll, making this the worst ever. Harder to imagine a mass killer cut from this mold Of being so heartless and desensitized to life he severs. To the victims accept my cries of condemning this worm While paying homage to harmonious humans imparted from the eyes of the storm. Logan Robertson 10/4/17
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Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
We Cry The Bad Cloud Over Las Vegas
Friends ain't **** but hell waiting to happen. And even tho you're gone, I'm doing just fine You were like a chain wrapped around my throat Tying me back to the places I hate most And now that we're done My mind can finally rest No more kissing *** I'm taking my life back It seems so long ago We were nothing but close We never had a fight, Cause we both hated our life And now that I'm trapped between my dark and her light You think I'm not good enough to keep in your life So **** you, it's not your fault **** me, what have I done **** you, for not giving a **** And **** myself for giving up on this quick But the time has come for us to say goodbye You'll still be in my heart, if you're not by my side 6 years later What have we become Desensitized to life Cause we're so ******* numb From trying to escape The same hell we came from So **** you, it's not your fault **** me, what have I done **** you, for not giving a **** And **** myself for giving up on this quick So now he's got your back Yeah you're doing just fine But you cannot forget all the pain left behind I know your secrets I understand your past I can tolerate your anger And I saved your **** life Well I guess you saved mine A million times too And I never would have guessed I wouldn't be lost without you But I'm dead, I'm ******* dead I owed you my life but you gave it right back and now that you left, I'll just take it myself Ending this fight with my own ******* hand **** **** you (I'm so sorry) **** me (I didn't want this to end) **** you But you don't even care So I'm better off dead
0
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
Fighting Wolves and Demons (song)
Friends ain't **** but hell waiting to happen. And even tho you're gone, I'm doing just fine You were like a chain wrapped around my throat Tying me back to the places I hate most And now that we're done My mind can finally rest No more kissing *** I'm taking my life back It seems so long ago We were nothing but close We never had a fight, Cause we both hated our life And now that I'm trapped between my dark and her light You think I'm not good enough to keep in your life So **** you, it's not your fault **** me, what have I done **** you, for not giving a **** And **** myself for giving up on this quick But the time has come for us to say goodbye You'll still be in my heart, if you're not by my side 6 years later What have we become Desensitized to life Cause we're so ******* numb From trying to escape The same hell we came from So **** you, it's not your fault **** me, what have I done **** you, for not giving a **** And **** myself for giving up on this quick So now he's got your back Yeah you're doing just fine But you cannot forget all the pain left behind I know your secrets I understand your past I can tolerate your anger And I saved your **** life Well I guess you saved mine A million times too And I never would have guessed I wouldn't be lost without you But I'm dead, I'm ******* dead I owed you my life but you gave it right back and now that you left, I'll just take it myself Ending this fight with my own ******* hand **** **** you (I'm so sorry) **** me (I didn't want this to end) **** you But you don't even care So I'm better off dead
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54
i swore to myself that a flick of the tongue would never shelter self-hatred so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being. contagion is a sad **** thing and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor those who hurt cannot become hurt and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others. however there are few who's torment is only self-projected i am one an anathema that exists in silence my past has been placed in a box full of secrets along with the evidence of my self-mutilation is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed? this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me because i would rather not feel a **** thing than to be plagued by misery from myself and the ones i love however, emotions are not choices and humans cannot be reprogrammed it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words are what my familiars take to heart bodies speak such complex languages and not everyone has the patience or the attentiveness to listen to anything other than a cry and although i warn and beg for warmth i receive only glaciers and memories of faces overwritten with impassivity what i would give to reach into the darkest parts of my soul and rip out this sorrow that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche in the depths of my worst memories there is a wish a want a need to take this heart of mine and throw it to wolves to be destroyed but desensitized in my heart is all my pity my lust my anger my sadness and sunshine darkened and gutted so very long ago
0
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
regards
i swore to myself that a flick of the tongue would never shelter self-hatred so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being. contagion is a sad **** thing and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor those who hurt cannot become hurt and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others. however there are few who's torment is only self-projected i am one an anathema that exists in silence my past has been placed in a box full of secrets along with the evidence of my self-mutilation is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed? this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me because i would rather not feel a **** thing than to be plagued by misery from myself and the ones i love however, emotions are not choices and humans cannot be reprogrammed it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words are what my familiars take to heart bodies speak such complex languages and not everyone has the patience or the attentiveness to listen to anything other than a cry and although i warn and beg for warmth i receive only glaciers and memories of faces overwritten with impassivity what i would give to reach into the darkest parts of my soul and rip out this sorrow that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche in the depths of my worst memories there is a wish a want a need to take this heart of mine and throw it to wolves to be destroyed but desensitized in my heart is all my pity my lust my anger my sadness and sunshine darkened and gutted so very long ago
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50
Exhausted from feeling    reeling peeling away my exoskeleton of mossy vehemence Disgusted from festering pestering bacteria leeching my energy depleting my senses Desensitized towards romance no chance for me Sinking in a swamp instead of grasping for relief Ashamed for allowing disavowing natural instincts Crying    dying internally invaded by poisonous neglect   Suicide by choking on your spoken words I kept
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May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Wading through the glades of emotion
I think Grandpa Stewart developed a stutter from years of being interrupted. I've never heard him get out a whole sentence on his own, without Grandma cutting him off before tonight. He hobbles over to the kitchen where I'm doing dishes after dinner. Expectantly, I look up into the ***** windowpanes of his old, gray eyes, his hands are shaking and lips quivering. When he talks, it's like a secret, and he tells me, struggling over sequence and syllables, stories of being a volunteer firefighter. Days he was the strongest man anyone knew. He stopped a flaming tractor trailer, once, from running away all ablaze when its brakeline blew up. Set his jaw, leaned into the smoke, another time, and pushed onward in steady strides, putting out a fire in a nickel and dime store, even when the hose pressure was pushing his line of sweaty men backward into the street. Where the hell is that fighting man? I look at the hunched, wrinkled one before me and remember the panic that crippled him when his second son killed himself 12 years ago. Knelt down as if in prayer, begging for forgiveness maybe, put a shotgun under his chin, and blew his brains out, a different type of fire, with carbon and sulfur exploding just as deadly. They said the bullet came out his eye socket. I don't know how they could tell. It was a stranger in the casket they pieced together from chunks of skull found across the basement floor. Haunted by fires, Grandpa doesn't sleep now, answers the phone on the first ring, paralyzed in perpetual anxiety, yelling,                                                              "Y-Y-YES?! He-Hello?!" His stutters are a endless seziure convulsing on his tongue. He's slower, he's somewhere else, he 's interrupted and doesn't try. He's medicated and sedated and smothered into this empty shell of a man, sleeping, existing on a living room recliner, ****** with colorless eyes, desensitized to fear and family, broken in the wake of fire's senseless destruction; all the charred ashes left in its place.
0
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
Stutter
I think Grandpa Stewart developed a stutter from years of being interrupted. I've never heard him get out a whole sentence on his own, without Grandma cutting him off before tonight. He hobbles over to the kitchen where I'm doing dishes after dinner. Expectantly, I look up into the ***** windowpanes of his old, gray eyes, his hands are shaking and lips quivering. When he talks, it's like a secret, and he tells me, struggling over sequence and syllables, stories of being a volunteer firefighter. Days he was the strongest man anyone knew. He stopped a flaming tractor trailer, once, from running away all ablaze when its brakeline blew up. Set his jaw, leaned into the smoke, another time, and pushed onward in steady strides, putting out a fire in a nickel and dime store, even when the hose pressure was pushing his line of sweaty men backward into the street. Where the hell is that fighting man? I look at the hunched, wrinkled one before me and remember the panic that crippled him when his second son killed himself 12 years ago. Knelt down as if in prayer, begging for forgiveness maybe, put a shotgun under his chin, and blew his brains out, a different type of fire, with carbon and sulfur exploding just as deadly. They said the bullet came out his eye socket. I don't know how they could tell. It was a stranger in the casket they pieced together from chunks of skull found across the basement floor. Haunted by fires, Grandpa doesn't sleep now, answers the phone on the first ring, paralyzed in perpetual anxiety, yelling,                                                              "Y-Y-YES?! He-Hello?!" His stutters are a endless seziure convulsing on his tongue. He's slower, he's somewhere else, he 's interrupted and doesn't try. He's medicated and sedated and smothered into this empty shell of a man, sleeping, existing on a living room recliner, ****** with colorless eyes, desensitized to fear and family, broken in the wake of fire's senseless destruction; all the charred ashes left in its place.
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46
Shapes, colors, sounds Unintelligible, thoughtless expression Thrown carelessly into my perception Cast aside all feeling, love As you are shepherded into policy Trapped in a cage of conformity We become what we're molded to be Body and mind, desensitized Body and mind, dehumanized The workplace has become a temple to the mind A monument to substance; tear it down Our existence is blind, meaningless at best This planet is a wasteland; tear it down Dehumanize yourself and face to bloodshed
0
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Sub-Human
insidious newsfeed. apathetic "like"   (I guess they're getting married.) assessing my worth 'friend' counts and Klout scores. modify your post to be pleasant, as to 'dislike' something deems it unworthy of notice. "Just got arrested, #lol-- free breakfast." We are becoming a collective of aging selfies and isolated narcissists. dissociative culture. I am desensitized to my own most precious moments and have condensed their value into how many people care enough to click a button. blending into the numbers we are in the back seat of our own lives and our weekly web-content is drunk behind the wheel. You don't need a machine or the internet to tell you you're anything less than beautiful and a star, inside and out. -r0
0
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
social media
Calm and cosy Curled up in my cotton tomb, Transported back to the womb, Where I dreamt endlessly. There I smelt my life Imminent, timid, But ****** and vivid; Here it is different And deadly. My life reeks of decay As it burns away; I taste the ash of my lungs, Anaesthetised, desensitized, Stupefied and condemned. Scorched by conflagration, Numbed by smoke, But I do not choke Just sleep And keep on dreaming. My cotton tomb ablaze, A-kindle and consuming, Collapses while still fuming, Swallows me as I slumber Or so I thought. My maid she came a-wandering, A-wondering, And saw me here a-slumbering In my cotton tomb of fire. I felt her drown my death, Extinguish Hell, Restore my breath, And I awoke in a fit of passion, ‘Deuce take me, what has happened?’ The timid creature, Like newborn life, Stood trembling, as well as I, But told the tale From start to end. I implored of her To not say a word; The events of which have occurred Are our secret – Instead I enclosed her in my arms As rapture seized me in its jaws, Dragged me back from Death’s door And threw me at her feet. I praised her long My preserver, my protection, Then let her shivering form go In the wake of my affection.
0
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
What the Deuce? (inspired by Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre')
There's something so sick about         this emotional capacity Before breakfast we plant atomic bombs in our neighbors yard                                                                like bulbs of (glad)iolus Haven't you noticed how much gardens look like graveyards My cereal, ceiling, bathroom, and skin         All say Made in China This homeland is looking more like that land Ughhh and you can see the blood in my pink nail polish from that sweat shop girl It's not supposed to be RED! ooOooopps did we just learn how to commercialize genocide I'm wondering when I'll wake up with a barcode Will it be on my eyelids              my arms                                           my soul Maybe God was in the bees And now Now there's no more honey, flowers, or trees                           Just time. My brothers both went to war It's not Wal-Mart But it's open 24/7, checkout through Heaven And I don't think they're coming home Not without bones implanted in their brains sharp, jagged, broken ones That kind that make you uncomfortable with your memories The one's that make it hard to sleep Last week I found a dead cat   A dead bird in the snow When I turned around the corner, I saw myself I was lying in the street           Dead, dead And I felt nothing
0
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
Too Desensitized to find my way Home
Nobody mourn, nobody get hurt We just project redirect the blame and sink back into interactions with coping devices of mass distraction The artificial womb of the masses Tethered by an invisible umbilical cord feeding us way too much information Like hungry ghosts salivating the next notification We can’t run. We can’t hide. There’s a threat to survive, But we’re so ******* desensitized Seduced by the school shooter we don’t hear him coming singing siren songs heart-beating shotgun blasts That leitmotif in sync with The American Horror Story allegory Just forget it Too much in the queue Too many new things We can’t reject this reality It’s really ******* broken Em, I’m sorry we’re descending Much Madness has lost its meaning It’s just the means to unlock an achievement Emulate another scumbag. romanticize a villain amplify the bodycount Like how many do you need to ***** out before they give you the cover of the Rolling Stone? It's comedically-tragic, Stranger than satire. The Judge, the jury Executioner cutie cut all your losses for ya cashed in your lil tax deductions The most sacred snuffed out before the light could become them Get woke a-f, This is enlightenment! Come on get your mind blown! He’s the one who loves to shoot his gun But he knows not what it means knows not what it means. Do you know what it means?
0
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
iGnoreality
wake up desensitized, oversanitized want unsatisfied want unsatisfied want unsatisfied want unsatisfied Dab all over with aches, pains, and itches. Struggle with gauche and forced interactions, coworkers and family. Friends? No God.                                                               POSITIVE THOUGHTS                                                                POSITIVE THINKING cloying, choking fear. fear Fear FEAR F E A R Rub your face in the mirror. Think deep thoughts that you believe are unique. They are not. You are very uninteresting, probably. want unsatisfied want unsatisfied want unsatisfied want unsatisfied drink until you sleep, if not use the pills. Use both. Your room is warm. You will have nightmares.
0
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
daily bread
Desensitized by the sands of time I'm abhorred you're a cultural cog Bobbing on the surface you find eating gulls disgusting but don't bat an eye at nauseous oil slicks I wish I could set it all ablaze so we'd pick our destinies more carefully Or more care freely You see me as a motley mesh Flesh covered by cloths from mismatched fads Yet, you're a pretentious simian that's forgot our past Just a gussied up grazer, disavowing discomfort scoffing at any endeavor that isn't grass flavored The chimers on the lawn are all robed outcasts bellowing to the fodder eating fodder the posh set the stalks to be mowed over But for the justice of all the inside out bulls leaving their wallets on the ground the entrail fashion never catches on
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Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Buoy Brains
Whisper me sweet nothings of time melting away these regrets Or how time itself melted away all these months and years apart Assure me that the years have dulled these memories, diluted their potency Lie to me and tell me these memories have faded or that time heals all Time, the biggest liar of all, Taking memories and simply aging them in oak barrels to be sampled like a fine whiskey with a cigar or a side of regret Time doesn't heal a **** thing, It makes tragedy tolerable, Like soldiers desensitized to the smell of death and rot Time can't heal a story whose happy ending can never be written as intended, It can only lend itself so that the story may be rewritten.
0
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
Desensitized