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I disassociate to my "friends" lives scrolling by,
I don't need any spliff or fungus to reach
Peak apathetic  non self congruence.
Watching years pass by in seconds
Is all the psychedelic room temperature
Mental priming for my primate mental
That I could ever hope for

Before being snapped back out
By the cubed carrot reward of
Internet interaction
Which keeps me salivating and searching
For ways to increase the amount of time
I don't have to associate with that guy inhabiting my body
For a while I can see my problems as goners
Being slowly erased from my mind like a magnet over a hard drive

Until a kindly panic attack reminds my of
My lack of lack of control
And the selfless self centered guilt keeps me
Wishing I were working instead of living
Who could be so audacious
As to propose a life out side
Day Apr 1
Eyes open
Phones broken
Alarms on
Cars warm
Show up
Clock in
Do my work
Get paid
Clock out
Drive home
Feel drained
Close my eyes
Can't express
How I feel
Do I feel?
Sigh
Breathe in
Breathe out
Sleep
blake Jan 30
breathe. in. out.
what do you see?
computer-ruler-pen-calculator. sticky note. sticky note.
desk.
bag. chair.
what else do you see?
person-person--person---person----person.
who?
i don't know.
where are you?
does it matter?
who are you?
i forgot.
what are you?
disassociating.
Vanessa Grace Apr 2018
I'm so nostalgic these days
and I know you've heard that all before
the whole "I'm listening to old songs on repeat
and re-reading the broken stories I keep
to find myself again" thing—but hear me out.
No, this time I really mean it
Nostalgia is not a dark cloud lingering above my head
but a thunderstorm rumbling below my feet
and every moment of every day I'm tumbling through it
and trying to pretend I don't see concrete
hurdling towards me
like it has some twisted sense of vengeance,
some sort of hunger for my life.
And occasionally perhaps I can forget how broken I feel, and be content with what this is.
But this is a small life and it's an even smaller smile
when laughing at your jokes but turning up a noise-dial
in my head
so that I don't have to hear myself think
let alone breathe
over the chatter about how unremarkable I've become.

There's no sanctity to my mind,
no peace in my heart,
and no rest for my spirit.

So I'm nostalgic,
and yes, I mean it.
I'm listening to old songs on repeat.
Combing through ancient poems and pictures;
staring at a face that once upon a time, shared my likeness—
but now she mirrors my demons.
v.g

Sometimes I read this and it makes sense. Sometimes I read this and it's nowhere truthful enough.
amber Apr 2018
disassociating *******
consciousness, far from here
lost amongst the clouds in the sky
as I come down, they follow me
fog lays softly upon the ground I walk on
Noah Feb 2018
when the image in the mirror is not familiar.
when your sleeves are long because
you're terrified if you look that your arms
simply won't be attached to your hands.

when the world looks like a bad abstract
painting and when the paint starts running.
when the frame isn't straight or even a shape
and no lines are quite straight.

when words go sdrawkcab and your
mouth refuses to cooperate with the shapes
required and the sounds come out warped.

when you seem closer and more caring
because I am capital F ****** and
the love swirls in with the pity.

when the world is wrong and not even
you
can make it right.
This poem is about my experience with severe disassociation and dependency on things and people, but interpret it as you please.
Today my world opened up on all ends and all the different dimensions fell in on themselves.

Today I discovered what it means to be space, to exist in the realm of reality beyond my past and present.

I followed the imprint of echoes and got lost as the sirens swallowed me whole.

Today, I was a monster, peeking through holes left by stars into the realities I wish would disappear.

Today, I trickled into the atmosphere, wasted on broken glass and the blood from my throat.

Today my mask fell off and I was forced to see.

All the atoms split so far from each other I could hear the silence between reality and God.

Tomorrow I'll try to be better.
Myranda Earl Jan 2018
I cannot hate you for how you hurt others when you hurt.
I can only hate the feeling of my ribcage every time I move.
I hate that the bruising on my right side is just like a galaxy and excuse me for being cliche but I can still see the stars.
Throughout the day I cradle my ribs like I really am a cage and if I don’t hold my bones together, the door will swing open and I won’t be able to choke down the ****** violets anymore.
It’s been four days and I remind myself that my bony knobbed knees are just making up for the times I was too careful as a kid and should have fallen off my bike but didn’t.
But these skinned knees are reminders that my body is a jungle gym.
Climb me and become entangled, feel your feet slip and your hands sweat as you reach to the top, grab the last bar and declare your manhood.
I use to feel like a landscape, where even unwanted hands and eyes felt more like exploration and less like genocide
Like I am not the native and you are not a colonist
But now the force of which men kiss me with won’t leave my lips.
My mouth is crusted by this winter air and how I can’t ******* tear you off me-
The bruises on my body are like the perfect trail of recklessness and on how to love me but you are not a cartographer and-
I Am a paper back novel that’s been read so many times my spine is starting to disintegrate with pages made of butterfly wings.
I see myself in the mirror
But I cannot stand to see myself in reality.
It’s an undate on an old poem. I felt used for my body, reclaimed my sexuality and then was *****. its a journey.
Deanne Nov 2017
Losing grip of reality, I don’t know what’s next to me, losing touch with the world
The one I’m in that slowly flaked till fall, and I was the one who thought not of at all, but a string around the pieces,
I’ll say we tried but didn’t push, when we did we didn’t force it, when we did we fell nauseous, when we did we heard noises
Same drowned down sound of made up people around.. at least they’re not me.. said she
At least my self would never say, what she wanted to say, she wanted to burn
Darling wanted to wait her turn.. but turns donnot exist when all you need is a match and a box lies in your top drawer, your pocket, you’re a liar
When you say you wait for that heat
But let the water darling drowns in stays cool and cold getting colder around her
At least.
storm siren Nov 2016
Knuckles white,
Bared teeth that clack together with every barked out, growled out insult.

Black eyes that show nothing but cold ferocity,
And your tears reflected in the churning, opaque surface.

Red lips, curled over teeth that are too light,
And a tongue that's too sharp.

The silver tongued flattery is gone, any sense of mercy or humanity within her words is gone.

She's throwing insults,
And they're pointed but not full of curse words.
Things like,
"Your useless daddy issues and ability to use people to give you a sense of self worth makes you even more pathetic than I previously had thought,"
Or
"How emotionally unstable and black heart'd do you have to be to lie through your teeth and attempt at wounding people worlds smarter than you are, you sick freak?"

Something else about crying wolf and worthless worms.

She analyzes people to dehumanize them.

You're sickened by her words and ability to be so cruel,
And the hot rage boiling inside her makes you feel queasy,
So you slam the door and lock it,
Locking her away.

She wasn't talking about you,
But she is you,
And that scares you more
Than you're sickened by the people she was talking about.
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