Disassociation Nation
Each morning is static, eyes numb to the spill of sun,
mirrors show bodies, but memory falters, refuses to run.
Writing out panic, the hand drags a plea down the page,
no witness, no anchor, just distance rehearsed on a stage.
A stranger in flesh, this shell going through old, practiced moves,
laughter arriving offbeat, grief always missed, detachment improves.
History’s footage on loop, the scenes cut and clipped into mist,
every sensation reduced, each touch lost, each moment dismissed.
Smiles grow mechanical–lips curled for show, not for trust,
all feelings rehearsed for invisible judges, not love, never lust.
Every night, numbness eats hunger and hope from the inside,
with each blink, time erases, memories fracture, the mind wants to hide.
Talk is a reflex, a playback on tape, just hollowed-out words,
desires get muted, forgotten in code, each longing absurd.
Dreams glitched and faded, hearts fossilized under unchanging glass,
the body performing, the mind somewhere else, waiting for something to pass.
Here, connection’s a rumor, affection’s a myth we pretend,
hands try to reach, but the static returns, and signals won’t send.
Phones light the darkness, faces blurred out in digital snow,
every confession dissolves, every fear just an image to show.
We’re actors for ghosts, performing for nobody left in the seats,
the show’s all illusion, the ache all that’s real–repeat, repeat.
Loneliness posts its stories, unliked and unread,
the soul still uploading, but everything living in dread.
This country of silence–citizens wear the disguise,
mastering numbness, applauded for blank, practiced eyes.
We drift through simulation, invisible wounds wrapped in skin,
broken is standard, and nobody cares where we’ve been.
If anyone sees the fracture, they’ll scroll on and hide,
pain is not welcome, only image and pride.
We survive on the echo of hands we remember in dreams,
while nothing is ever as solid or close as it seems.
So here is our anthem, a hymn for the lost and unseen,
a pledge to the cracks in the world, to the places between.
Disassociation Nation, where real is an afterthought’s trace–
we are ghosts in our bodies, haunting ourselves in this place.