papercuts vs charred skin

i noticed there's a certain kind of poetry i'm drawn to, that tends to do well. there's so much to choose from, and i get antsy reading forms i can't immediately pick up and examine. I'm numb going over a translation of a Hebrew poem, then I'm forcing myself to get past mid-way in degrees of burns and grief, Palestinian, 'Oiwian, and Sudanese. I have no time to read another rendition of war in a land foreign to my heart, nor time to stop resisting the structure in service of its humanity, but I have plentry of time to read about travelling to colorado to mend papercuts, or spreading middle-class tension on blades of grass. the white 20-something girls are writing in force, and the cool ones have cracked it- at least the "it" that's easily marketable and well-selling. it's equal parts sweet-safe, hearty commonplace stuff that's easily digestible by most everyone, with a kick of spice right at the end to make you remember she's not your average white girl. what we lack in danger we make up for with dangerous words, at once meant to get you wet enough to keep coming back for more, but never end you completely. after all, what's the worst our pain could do to you? give you a papercut, maybe a bruise? at best it's that gut punch when your dad doesn't know what you do for work, or the slap across the face of your mom telling you she knows you wish her dead under your breath. does that ever amount to anything more than a thin slice of the skin? are my dangerous words fooling anyone into thinking my life has been anything but coasting on high currents, the closest I'll ever get to charred skin in the pages of a book I can't seem to find time for?