"desensitizing" poems
In a world without technology,
can you imagine how it would be?
To not have any lights.
We'll probably stay home at night.
In a world without technology,
we'll lose forms of connectivity.
We'll not have wifi or 3G,
distance will be as it should be.
However, without technology,
We won't have people far away,
because we can only walk on foot.
Most will live at home for good.
Without technology,
perhaps there'll be more sincerity,
where more people would be seen,
not looking at their phone screens.
Instead they'll stop and listen,
giving undivided attention,
to the people by their side.
Perhaps without technology,
we would have to do things manually.
Life may be tough physically.
But with technology,
is our life really that easy?
Is the world really as it should be?
Are people living in harmony?
Or is there more strife?
More people losing their lives?
Or is there more pain,
more people dying in vain?
What about pollution?
Isn't it part of our contribution?
All the fuels and carbon,
it'll soon bring us to extinction.
Our earth today is now diseased,
life on earth is not at peace.
We can deny all this,
And this is the utter irony,
while it gives us mass connection,
It reduces engagement,
attention and perhaps even compassion.
"Across the globe, millions reported dying",
ends up being desensitizing.
Technology's connectivity,
leaves us more detached than we should be.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
The innocence of someone who
still hasn't touched a drop.
Of someone who won't take a drag
or blow out clouds of useless crops.
They all start out the very same,
Say they won't touch a single thing
but they all end up the same as well,
all merely desensitizing.
Goodbye, goodbye my view of you.
Au revoir my idea of
My perception of that soul of yours.
Oh victim, victim
who are you?
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
The power lines provide
Elucidation in disguise
A sanctuary shadow-stained
Estate commandment private enterprise
Desensitizing blinded lies
The buy, buy, buy
Consumes the lives
As malnutrition feasts its eyes
Monopolized, the profits rise
The pockets lined with earth’s demise
Until the rockets own the skies
Devising how to energize
The Helios within our minds
As we just sit and stare with pride
Ascending our expenses climb
Mankind amidst the stars will shine
Except for who gets left behind
To overpopulate in time
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
The habitual morning nicotine ritual - exercising rites of many bored day runs for marijuana seekers in the combustible wheel-turning mechanisms of search and by no means of excellence - speaking simplistic languages - concerned with being full
full of joy, full of joy, full of joy
Determined to the final goodbye, the doldrums of steam-heat villages
Walking casually - robbed of daydreaming spectacle
twenty years to outer space, inner space - diving up like water bobbing air pockets
Tasting the Big Sky - delighting in just one event - and everyone's correct opinion concerning all as it is and as it used to stand - it changed- watch it change- the ebbing and flowing pinpricks pulse with time & desensitizing imagery
Going home - to the mists of the attic
Father/mother/son - a question of relation
Naming the precise, exact moment when the abstract word becomes idea - thought - turning - mind rebounding off the word - the principles - ideas - underlying reason - implications - emotional offense and nonsense
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
The ****** and crinkle of tinsel-wrapped trinkets,
The colour of the rainbow, caressing the cataracts
Of milky sightless eyes.
Trinkets that glisten and glimmer,
Shining with promises of sweet delight.
****** aromas of vanilla and cinnamon,
Forever false, forever deceitful.
Molten chocolate, flowing and folding,
Fills the mouth with its delectable lusciousness
But it is nothing ashes.
And these ashes fill the mind and body
With doubts and fears and disgust,
Crippling, desensitizing,
Leaving the soul empty, a void.
Still the wrappers build up around me.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
I've been taking a circuitous route
Only camels and Arabs
Know what I'm talking about.
Round and round and round
My mind turns about.
Now never again in my life
Will I try to doubt
Who I am
and where I will be.
When the evil within tries to get out.
Its time to reroute./
I've gotta reroute. /
I've got to get up on my feet
And shout. /
I've wasted too much time asleep.
Only ****** at myself
Because during the time I've spent
Trying to dig deep into her/
I have totally forgetten
Where I was and who they were./
Those who held me back/
gave me plenty of hugs and daps/
but made my time on earth a blur./
I love my brothers so/
And I lift them up
When they're low/
But when it's time to go/
**** its times to go./
Open up my crusted eyes
And let the Suns holy glow/
Help me grow./
I just hope that when I rise
I begin to know
I've been taking a circuitous route
Only camels and Arabs
Know what I'm talking about.
Round and round and round
My mind turns about.
But never again in my life
Will I try to doubt
Who I am
and where I will be.
Camels and Arabs/
I often wish I could walk
The land that they have./
Yet, I walk the land
Of trends and fads/
Expensive homes and tags/
That make me see everything
I do not have./
Only to drag me further away
From my true path./
Desensitizing me of
What I'm not suppose to have/
And throwing me on that circuitous route./
Now that I've figured all this **** out./
I'm going to backtrack on my life
And add in everything I left out. /
Reconstructing my mind
To make it my vibrant home.
So when they ask and say
"Klash, what took so long?"
I would reply
I've been taking a circuitous route
Only camels and Arabs
Know what I'm talking about.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
hate nation in love with hypocrisy
sits outside my window
pushing the limits
asking me to join in the rampage
but no peace officers will die by my hand
nor drug dealers or pedophiles
enemies of the state can drink sweet tea
on the veranda
at sunset
as apathy wins out with generation
‘who gives a ****
the gen x-ers sit in starbucks complaining about inequality
with the baby boomers shake gnarled fists
at perceive socialism
and every day and new over medicated misunderstood
child of this environment
unleashes frustration
by shooting everyone in the room
just like in every movie
video game
fictional or non
programming
desensitizing gun violence
and making death and mayhem
the fastest way to fame –
broken dreams of fore fathers
lay tattered on ratty parchment
asking citizenry to protect their fellow countrymen
at all cost
to hold dear ideas of freedom and liberty for all
but if you are Black at night
don’t you dare be caught in a hoodie
near any peace keeping security force
local or global
‘cause America is shootin’ to ****
and practice makes perfect –
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
I feel like sleeping
I feel like sleep; tired and sick
bemoaning conversations, groans turned into rants
screaming sycophantic nuances like flies stuck to ****
gone on counting, willing things to be out of sheer desperation
I cant recall when last I fell to the ground alone
dissonance comes and goes like fire slows the defying cold shoulders
but frost burn still hurts immensely
negligence desensitizing everything I touch
if dreams are the last escape from what is real
then what is real anymore?
when I close my eyes its all the same
tears still soak the pillow when I am the only mistake
irrelevancy is all there is anymore
I feel like sleeping
but when I get there, I hope I never awake
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
I'm not a judgemental person equalizing accusations
To impress a minor audience full of devil's and demons
And the wicked and the sinful pacing back and forth to
Chronological melody desensitizing the brain and it's
Chemistry with movement and places to remember in
Photographs taking false imagery to a whole new
Kind of staff,
I was born to believe that Jesus died for our sins,
Lored into things that I couldn't hardly comprehend,
Putting back missing pieces and beating myself to
A pulp,
Learning what I could without phobias if they stalk.
/
You might be 17 hours away just thinking about
Me In your pajamas making circles with your
arms And laying out sheets of paper to start a
Portfolio of drawn faces and characteristics that
Only you could sort out seeing as how you just
Seen me a couple of weeks ago,
I'd rather go,
I'd rather show,
you in person how long I've been missing you,
I hope you know,
I'm kinda slow,
If I didn't see you message me just keep me in
Your memories,
I'm missing all of your energy,
I know that your still into me.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
Have I, perchance, metamorphosed into a devil?
Or do I wade in the slow currents of transformation, inching towards such darkness?
This change of my soul haunts me, casts doubt upon my existence as a being of flesh and bone.
For within, I sense no pain, no guilt, nor remorse,
When my tongue wields daggers of impudence, my words crude and abusive.
Verily, I long for these mortal shells to retreat from my presence,
To keep their distance as one would from a plague.
Is this the aftermath, then, of betrayal, a betrayal wrought by hands I once trusted?
This world, inhabited by insolent beings, claims existence as complex and full of agony.
Yet, how cunning are they, to hide their sins,
Masking the slaughter of innocence in souls beneath the veil of life’s curse,
And adorning their graveyards by weaving tales of love and tragedy in the deepest crimson ink.
Numbness enshrouds my entire flesh,
And I long for the piercing wail of these desensitizing emotions to tear my chest,
Even at the cost of my annihilation.
For I do not wish to be alive anymore because life has forsaken me eons ago.
I am now cursed, my neck bound by the serpent of coldness, its venom coursing through my veins.
Blisters mar my fingertips, and the bones of my spine ache as I hunch over my weathered quill,
Penning countless verses
In search of the tattered shreds of my sanity amid commas and colons that may yet remain within.
But each prose’s end becomes a question, inquiring the purpose of my continued breath,
Punctuating my verse with a query rather than an end.
How shameless of me to craft fireworks of art from the agony inflicted by these mortals!
Oh, I beseech the heavens for the liberation of my soul from this earthly vessel,
To journey far from this realm of demons disguised as men.
Oct 16, 2024
Oct 16, 2024 at 4:13 AM UTC
Barefoot on a cold pavement of the night
Barely covered, chills and shivers creeps up
Through the soles of my feet reaching the roots of my hair
An unhurried assault of desensitizing numbing.
I am not myself; I am under, under a spell
Under a call that begs me to pursue so I run
Run, under a trance like a mad woman I run
A deafening cry of silence only I can hear.
I searched in desperation and despair
Where, anywhere, somewhere, everywhere
How, where, when, where are you?
My resolve troubled, I listened in the dark.
Shattered in a million pieces and heartbroken
I dropped to knees on the hard pavement
An agonizing cry of a wounded creature
As no answer came for the one that waits.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
Laced with my ambitions mixed with motivations and a teenage life that was forsaken like a
Frankenstein as a fail creation to the family members I thought would've had my back though all
The troubles but they are the troubles in a world so potent to mind controlling and self-
Absorbing in breaking a focused Lord that only wants the best for all his children but the system
Says otherwise to prized possessions like peace in America where they spike what you eat and
Make a profit off the weak,
Blacks in America can't be leaders without corruption and greed and every step you take is
Mostly a bullet or on your knees especially desensitizing all the people to the wrong things in life
that'll make you **** just for some bling bringing kids and teens in hospitals to be adopted into
Worse families is the trade where money is the seed amplifying what you need collecting checks
Off of kids you don't need pinching the poor and defenseless to meet all demands thinking why
Is it that God doesn't take a stand.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
A friend I call Sister Shawie silently sobs
And all of her children’s hearts’ knobs
are plugged with mics noise-cancelling
and bluetooth earphones desensitizing.
Old mixed emos - can’t relate, how brute
- worse than real deaf or numb or mute.
Their sympathetic eye implants blue night
and smiling chrysanthemums yellow bright
selectively blind. Their once flawless derma
now pock-marked with socmed anesthesia.
Beneath the optical cables of glass sublime,
the umbilical cords are cremated in time
as the much sought wifi signals reach prime.
The cyber world defies ethics and all logic . . .
A mother’s milk is replaced just like magic.
Sep 9, 2024
Sep 9, 2024 at 9:41 PM UTC
Emotions are my prison guards
Caging me in a spiral of suffocation
Enraging me with their limitless torture
Forcing me to feel and hurt over and over
Endless it seems in its sadism
Starving me of the ability to love and care
Numbing my heart and shutting my brain
Desensitizing my soul, till I'm an empty vessel once again.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Rationalizing impulses
until I am overanalyzing
which is paralyzing
and leads to desensitizing,
So realizing
this is truly agonizing,
Which is not surprising.
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 7:42 PM UTC
Because my love for the world has never been reciprocated,
I used to feel the night creep on my skin due to fears in the light.
The darkness hasn't always been my companion, but is now an old friend.
It wrapped around me with a soft touch and a warm embrace,
Slowly suffocating me like a cocoon made of sticky spider silk.
Protecting me,
Isolating me,
Desensitizing me,
So I no longer reel from every heartfelt blow
So I no longer hurt
Or dream,
Or hope
It's now as much an old friend as the weariness in my soul.
Working in conjunction to advertise the eternal nothingness waiting for me on the other side.
The darkness wasn't always my companion,
But it's now my closest friend.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 11:00 PM UTC