My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.

Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.

How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?

More importantly,
how could those ******* traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.

My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.

In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.

And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.  
    
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.

It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.

Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.

So now I know,
it is true
life is a *****.  

The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.

As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.

Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.

And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors

So insensitively you drain and ***** me
taking blood samples and injecting the chills
enstilling no trust right before you ******
foreign objects into my gut
I didnt ask for you nor did you ask for me
and with a situation that should be full of understanding
we just cant seem to meet eye to eye
you are the arrogant judgemental kind
and me I'm just a piece of paper
full of ineligible lines
I hate doctors or most I should say
I come in always in the worst of situations
For them its everyday
and the longer they're with it
the less humane they seem
I dream of a world full of humility
while I crumble
traumatised in hospital sheets

Laying there stagnant
My fingers percuss
Your ivory spine
Striking tendon strings
With fleshy hammers
Filling your thorax
With the vibrations
Of a thousand wasps
Stinging at your heart
As you stung at mine
Injecting resin
Injecting reason
To stay forever
And I ignite you
You, the Brazen Bull,
Cremating your heart
Still beating “I love you”
In boiling Morse code
But howling His name
In perfumed clouds of
Carbon Monoxide
Insensitively

The world of adults has for a long time been insensitively pouring lies onto the purity of the newly created mind, believing persistently in the vortex of nonsense while living in it. They do not know for the alternative . They are afraid…
That is why they are fostering the lie and with the finger in front of the mouth they are evoking premonition.
Silence was interrupted by a gentle voice from the corner. Lurking, he waited patiently for his moment. Then he started very slowly and softly and curious become quiet and then there was silence.
- Outside, you could hear a life! – said the kid – People live outside.
The father got up from the chair while the others looked at the child in astonishment, he then went to the window and said:
- There is no one out there. It's raining and it's gloomy. It gets dark faster in the autumn.
- Through the door, under the threshold, I feel the pollen from the blooming linden trees. It's morning and it isn’t dark. It is just about to be dawning. And it's not autumn but it's late spring – the boy said.
- There’s no morning, son. – said the concerned father, looking briefly at his son and then back to the backyard.
- There it is, behind the gates. Only you cannot see it. It’s scared of the grown-ups. I will go there and invite the morning to come in.
The kid ran out and returned in a few moments, holding the morning by the hand. The linden tree smelled even stronger and the joy of the awakened day sneaked into the house.

Why did you burn me, Fire? Constantly
screaming, jagged in breath, while desperate
for attention-- Where's your dignity?
You've been asking for attention, reaching
for our hands, snapping towards scorched
palms you bubbled, inflated with infection.
I flinch when you spark back to creation.
You've cracked within pressure, Fire,
molten at the core, insensitively lost,
but you, Fire, you lost yourself within
heated monetary discussions--
You seek for growth, demolishing
the path you take.  I can only blame
myself though, Fire. I'm the one who
encouraged, blew on your embers,
empowering your ideals, starting rampages
that engulfed forests and plains. Leaves
dared to love you, now burnt--
You've lost yourself, Fire. Will you
ever let your guard down again?

She sees the world in vibrant colors
Shades that will never be discovered
It is a different world for this woman.
Everything is flowers.
When she opens her eyes nothing is covered.
However no one can see what she sees.
No one can have her perspective;
And no one will see though her eyes,
Into her heart,
Inside her soul.
Her ears are quite different;
They hear pain and hate
It is a different world from what she hears and sees.
Her heart above all is filled with hate and love.
She hates the world, but she cannot hate any individual.
She knows what it is like to be hated
And pushed down so insensitively.
So she loves
But that love has yet to be returned.
Her mind is filled with the sight of beauty,
The sound of hate,
And emotions with no range.
Because of this
She will never be understood,
Never loved,
And never accepted as who she is.
So, the mask goes on
Hiding all of these,
“flaws”.

Too much trauma
The brain needs a rest
Who cares
Too much of everything
To sleep with no interference
In isolated solitude
A moment of no spoken word
Curtains drawn
Darkened room
My room of gloom
Devoid of thought
No telephone to insensitively pierce the silence
No one to enter the room uninvited
Utter words of razor
Cutting into you
Into your very soul
A hellish insensitive voice
The one that could make you ****
Feel no shame
Carry no blame
Then go back to sleep

Walk, stop, look
In this journey I go barefoot
Passing many things that I forsook
Without a place to plant my roots

Gave my hearts to the people I pass
For them to play, love or break
To myself I have brought this ache
For insensitively talking words of crass

I’ve seen too many things
Felt too many stings
But I’ve never changed this attitude
In the horizon I spot solitude

Maybe It’s better to be a genuine passerby
Enjoying the scenery as I move
With no hearts left behind and given love
Free as the wind in the unfettered path toward the sky

But can’t and will not cease
For I can’t stop being human yet
To separate the seven emotion and four vices
My mind, for that, is still not set

Lets say I’ll achieve those on death’s door
Only looking forward if to hell drop or to heaven soar
But there is still such a long way before the ending
Now with hearts given, I am just passing

Nobody tells you
That you won’t be able to listen to music
Because it’s all insensitively about love
Or unbearably true to your pain

Nobody tells you
That you’ll lose control over your mind
Because every last little thing will remind you of him
So you’ll have to fight through each moment just to be okay

Nobody tells you
That your body will feel cold
That you’ll tremble
And ache

And nobody tells you
That sometimes you’ll feel fine
And that those moments are the scariest of all
Because that feels like you’re losing them
All over again

I  like avant-garde poetry
but only to a certain extent
the poets care more
of their unique tongues
traditions they deplore-
they smash the past's finest
as though in angry vengeance
new paths in vanity they explore

weird images
outlandish metaphors
sentences
insensitively sliced
they even overlook
grammatical errors

who do they target
only the intellectual few?
is their role
to stage a coup d'etat
to effect
a coup de grace?

is poetry intended
to mystify, obscure
rather than illuminate
enlighten, inspire
or
serve the poets' egos?

I'll appeal
to the common heart
in words simple and plain
avoid self-aggrandised art
in gentle hope
I might soothe
someone's sorrow or pain

give me then
Shelley, Keats, Byron
they make me weep
over and over again.