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Caro Mar 2019
It's March in California and,
It feels like an early September evening in Virginia,
An owl is cooing,
A nostalgic singsong that reminds me of the woods behind my parents house,
Comfort seekers in my senses inflate,
Disappearing into a heady haze,
Anything to distract myself from the mini self-betrayal I just executed.

I can watch myself as I do it,
Basking in this nostalgia,
The detachment from my pain easing my shoulders,
Making me feel high,
Or maybe it's the serotonin and dopamine,
Coursing around in my body,
Freely,
As it pleases,
Results of.

The owl is howling and my roommate is home,
My phone is silent and I'm blissfully alone,
Detachment, detachment, detachment,
My favorite drug, how I've missed you.

So sickly happy,
So near to trauma,
(my familiar place)
But my perspective saving me from feeling it..

I could be in Virginia in 2008,
My legs a little hairy,
A breeze blowing through my long, long hair,
Innocence teasing me.

Or I could be here, now,
Listening for an owl that has stopped calling.

How delicious. Sweet detachment.

My favorite drug.
Bernice Helena Feb 2019
It's strange.
Progressively faint,
Denouncing a saint.

It's strained.
Every smile forced;
A pain to paint!

It's a disdain.
To detach it from my veins,
Watching my affections wane.

It's a change!
Perverse propulsion, *******
Into a new unwilling, unsuspecting
Star, sun, sky.
From the hollows of her heart.
Em MacKenzie Jan 2019
I savour the coffee taste on your tongue and on your lips,
it’s reminiscent of my throat when a word slips, or when each pill drips.
The less and less I sleep,
the more secrets I keep,
whisked away in stolen conversation
but all the thoughts; lost in translation.
Squeeze the trigger, pull the plug,
I now figure you’re just another drug,
I won’t get clean; this time I’ll overdose,
I couldn’t hope to wean when you’re still this close.

So turn up the boiling scalding water,
you know that it’s time to come clean.
Submerge yourself or don’t even bother,
appearance doesn’t matter when you’re never seen.

I was worried I’d be trapped on a different side,
resulting from the bleaching of the darkness that I tried to hide,
covered in a soft pastel portrait of a stranger,
who balanced pleasure and pain with no thoughts of danger.
I admit I’ve written letters before
as a safety net,
at the time it meant more,but you’re still upset.
“I’m cautious while being reckless,
always nauseous but please respect this,
I’ve been done for years,
and now it’s gotten too trite,
my lip quivers from the tears,
where once I just used to bite.”

So get out all of the soaps and the oils,
you know that it’s time to come clean.
Replenish the lukewarm with water that boils,
and continuing scrubbing and lathering inbetween.

They all ask the five W’s and one H,
and expect a definition on abrupt command.
In my bath the purity saturates,
I only find bubbles and water spill from my hand.

It’s hard to describe in written word
the completion that was suddenly felt,
it was my first sight and first sound heard;
a power that could make the galaxies melt.
She threw a blanket statement over me,
but it failed to cover me up whole.
In the corner of her eye all I’ll ever be,
is frozen feet walking out of control.

So let yourself soak until you dissolve,
you know that it’s time to come clean.
It’s within the water we’re bound to evolve,
and if all fails we’ll glisten and gleam.
Pagan Paul Jan 2019
.
A ghost walking the day
like a spy upon a dream,
she stares out of a window
arrayed in black bombazine.
Hair tinged with a little grey,
such sadness she bears alone,
drifting through the quiet rooms
of a cold and empty home.
Saving her love for loneliness,
wrapped in an airy husk,
night cannot come to soon
and the veil fall with dusk.




© Pagan Paul (21/01/19)
.
neth jones Jan 2019
"It suffers ;
  Not ; I suffer"
this being realised ;
exercise detachment
operate using a buffer :
A Curtain Option
Is What's Being Discussed
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
It is cold on the dark side of the Sun.
There is no heat,
not even in a thousand summers.
There is no light,
not even at the end of a tunnel.
Because on the dark side
there is No Sun,
not even in a billion Stars.



© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
.
Bansi Adroja Dec 2018
It's odd how much people change
old friends from childhood
feel like strangers
and you wonder
whatever happened to them

I have changed too
detached from myself in a way
it's almost uncomfortable
not feeling like me
like a dreamscape
it is almost somewhere safe
A Poem a Day: Disassociation 101
JJ Inda Nov 2018
Dust sits on the shelf,
no books or papers
only dust,
remainders of life.
-Staring at it,
feeling nothing.
Hoping for nostalgia, but no.
This sudden detachment is worrisome.
The work can suffer
you know?
Sabila Siddiqui Nov 2018
It arrives uninvited.
Quietly seeping in like toxic gas,
suffocating and poisoning
any thought etched with love,
leeching its happiness.

It unpacks anxieties,
dressing me in layers of loathing;
scraping insecurities
to let it rage on my being.

It gently coaxes my mind
painting every thought a shade darker
letting it heavy
myself to detachment.

It purrs and studies
getting comfortable;
morphing reality into a self made purgatory.

Slacking and barely coping with the pace of reality,
it tears fibers to root itself
allowing it to grow with every beat
leaving no energy to breathe.

Emptiness
Loneliness
Detachment
Stillness
are all back,
heaving my eyelids
leaving a trail of labels
down to my chin.

Until my hollow structures
implode into dark matter
leaving me one with the abyss.
Ophélie S Sep 2018
i.


not bad,
i commented to myself as i watched you do your thing
for the first time ever ;
not bad was my way to say
extraordinary
still is today
i have standards, you see and —
well...
they were met when i
heard you say,
"that's only half what
i can do."

let's get this straight:
i was the best at what i do until
you came around ;
it's not like i'm mad though —
quite the opposite 
in fact.


ii.


here's something else:
i have always liked the way your eyes
shot daggers
even when you were smiling ;
a death stare, they named it and, you know,
i won't call them wrong —
i'm rather fluent with the concepts of
death
and staring myself, after all.


ah,
do you remember?
when we spoke to each other —
it was always a sparring of
eyes
rather than words.


iii.


a fact:
you have been called cold
more often than
you have been called pleasant ;
i know  —
it's not like you'd disagree
not like you'd be stupid enough to
deny ;
cold is a comfortable shadow
to hide in,
something people like us
wear as a coat or
a scarf
from july to june.


now,
there's this saying that the addition of
two negative objects
turns them a positive
result ;
i'm not much of a scholar so, honey,
what's on your mind?


iv.


i get it now,
if i'm propellers
you are wings —
rather than a mirror, we're
distorted reflects
a thing evolution knows
a great deal about ;
this yearning is the aspect of you
i'd wish to keep
bottled up ;
"what for?" you'd ask.


no,
yearning is not a thing
i'm a stranger to ;
i've yearned for many things including
strength
sleep
serotonin
and you —
i've been struggling
to make them mine, though
perhaps because i'm never really trying.


v.


that's how you do it:
you take what you want with
clawed hands
accomplish miracles with
thunderous silence —
an entity of cruel fairness,
icy anger but —
what you want is a complicated
thing
with definite shape to your eyes
but blurry to those of
others.


okay,
i'm neither believer nor seer but
here's a little prediction :
the day you are satisfied is the day
hellmouth
shuts down upon us all and
half of me
prays for it.


vi.


about extremes —
some will say grey is a better shade and
though i confess
it does have its charms,
it still has to paint me a picture more striking
than a soul with
adamentine purpose.

see —
i stare as you pass by,
terrific in beauty
beautiful in hardness and
off —
goes my heart, sanity, ego
and shirt.
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