"fogging" poems
The hints of a razor gleam
creeping up from behind
shivers begin to scream
a thought undefined.
Crystalline destruction manifests
in shards of failed dreams
circulation and cells cease
I am dumber today.
Clogging and fogging the mind
promises cheat their way into lies
when depression becomes a way of life
serenity is found at the end of the line.
Escaping the cavity
in trails of shame
in vigour and madness
incapable of sadness.
Black hole eyes
cannot see the coming despair
the next morning impairs
certainty is a lie.
Senses start to fail
iron will turns frail
the devil’s sugar and salt
must never be taken so lightly.
Subtle and methodical
killing what makes you, you
another round for old time’s sake,
and you’re stuck to it like glue.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
Writer's block has clogged my mental pores
Oily ignorance I cannot ignore
Technology is fogging up my mind
Leaving me no time to unwind
I looked in the mirror today
And guess what I saw
My ugly, stunted imagination's face
Full of gross digital zits
I'm really starting to miss
My former wit
I've got to get out of this keyboard-y place
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
Rot and decay fills your mouth
And I see it fogging over your eyes
And when you speak I smell death and rust,
You’re either dead or lying and to be honest
I hope with all my heart it’s the first
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
Trying to juggle at 1am,
Trying to catch those god **** *****
Trying to throw them the"right way",
Trying to do everything everyone tells me,
Everything that I can't do.
Thoughts swirling in my brain,
Fogging my concentration.
Self-doubt arising,
wondering why no one has called me a failure yet.
Questions screamed to the universe.
All this fuss,
Just for three juggling *****
Three juggling ***** which I can't juggle,
Three juggling ***** leading to my accusation of a failure,
Three juggling ***** questioning my capacity.
All this for three juggling *****
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
Love is a violent act.
I mean, how does something,
So sweet and lovely,
Make you ready to commit,
Brutality and adultery,
And render us so incapable,
Of thinking past jealousy?
With red words fogging our eyes,
And a black void echoing between our ears,
I think love is a violent act.
For nothing like it,
Motivates us to tear down cities,
Dance in the ruins,
And rebuilt something new,
All for one person.
Love is a violent act,
That makes us take our hearts,
Pry, rip and tear slowly from our chests,
And lay it as an offering,
To someone who doesn't want it.
Love is such a violent act,
Melting our brains and controlling our tongues,
Numbing us to the fact that if we care, we will hurt,
Giving us an addiction worse than that to drugs,
God, it made us do so many things we shouldn't have done.
Love is such an unforgivable,
Violent,
Act.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
The seraph sky on ebony night,
A white marble of placid light.
Casting to the living glass,
Haunting, the feeling's elapse.
A time of gardenia drapes,
Hanging the mourning wall.
Scent of ambrosia fogging,
The pavement covered in moss.
Portraits of Celts amidst,
Drifting upon moonlight mist.
Eyes delving, ears opt to hear,
Voices whisper of ancient fear.
An oracle muses the unguided,
As trees speaks the truth.
Humanity strives to be the art,
Yet only remembers by a few.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
I’m just a more miserable version of myself
and my pen is my weapon that it uses,
Leaking out the gas I consume
and fogging the paper with words of death.
It carves out my pain to a permanent grave,
doing the bleeding for me,
slashing across the page; ink runs,
tears run, but I
can’t run.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
I let the glow of the headlights
and the glow in your eyes
guide us home.
Faint chords of an old rock song
drifting out the radio,
your breath
fogging the window
You, me,
a billion points of light
hanging above our tired heads.
And then you whispered quietly to me:
"These are the moments I remember."
The cream of your voice
Dragged me back from the clouds
and I turned to you.
"these are the moments I live for."
The slight furl of your lips
and the reflection of the moon in your eyes
hurled me back into my daydreams.
And then we were silent.
And the world felt right.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
The Most Exciting Part About The Night,
Was Watching The Milliliters Of The IV Bag,
Count Down From 1000,
Blood Staining My Right Arm,
A Glassy Stare Fogging My Own Vision,
The Bitter Taste Of ***** And Dissapointment,
Was Lodged In The Back Of My Throat,
Thirst Coating The Roof Of My Mouth,
My Body Weak,
The Rhythmic Clicking Of Machines Relaxing,
Almost--Peaceful,
Black Clawing At The Sides Of My Eyes,
Whispering A Lulling Language--Sleep My Friend,
Doctors Poking At My Abdomen,
Nurses Pushing Fluids Through My Veins,
Dyes, Potassium, Water, And Many Medicines,
X-Rays And CAT Scans Went By In A Blur,
As I Slowly Regained My Body
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 12:34 PM UTC
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
under stars
imitating
broken curbside glass--
over crunching gravel miles
measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
and squinting, midnight eyes...
Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.
Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...
coats are homes
for hands
rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.
*** * ***
Listing hard, adrift for years
water-logged and pocked--
no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
tell stories
of deck fires:
leaping rats,
and charred strakes
Clear deck,
empty hold,
abandoned helm.
this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
on midnight walks.
Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
I've been thinking
about
the art of speaking
auditory rhythms
and the like
in my very personal
opinion
these audio utterances
so often used
by the population
have become
somewhat
like pollution
fogging gracelessly
over the small drops
of wisdom
uttered
in near silence
if you actually listen
you'll probably hear them
somewhere
under the blurtations
of the unconsidered
thoughtless thoughts
they're there.
If you listen
the art of quiet
uncovers many surprises
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
Pressing His Cherub face against the window glass, To get the * Better View. Even as the Heat from his Breath caused the Fogging of the Glass ! Standing now on His Tip-Toes trying harder yet to get that Better View.. The crowds around Him, were pressing in, Pressing in as if they would *NEVER Get a Turn. The SIGN Clearly said ,,," ALL IN LINE , WILL GET THE OPPORTUNITY TO SEE , TO ASK and to CHOOSE ! " There were no Sequence numbers assigned, SO...the Poor LAD got Shoved further back into the MASSIVE CROWD . Instead of the Line getting smaller, it seemed that it was GROWING even Larger... The LAD with the CHERUB face was now pushed all the way to the OUTER-EDGES of the crowd. Not ONE without a *DRIVING URGE AND SPIRIT, the Lad Shouted in a Loud Voice and Pointing to the *REDDISH-BLUE morning sky. "There HE IS ! There HE IS ! ! " At that moment, everyone in the Great crowd turned toward the Lad and Looked up into the SKY... With Keen Alertness the CHERUB faced Lad Raced toward the entry door......and to HIS ASTONISHMENT,, *THERE HE STOOD,, The Tears of Great JOY and Excitement Poured down the CHERUB Faced Lad. The Lad had made His Choice....AND...He Saw *OPEN ARMS extended Open to Receive HIS Embrace ! ! The Roar of Joy from the Great Crowd did not dilute the TEARS OF DELIGHT Thoughts Racing thru His Mind,, about the CROWD WOULD THEY PRESS-ON AS THIS "CHERUB" HAD DONE.
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 3:10 AM UTC
gucci on my feet
dior on my outfit
something about making
all the money back
busy windshield wipers, red light.
messing with dating apps
while you’re talking
about buying black ops 4
forget what my purpose is
misted in the same drizzling cloud
fogging up the windows
the funny noises you make
when you laugh
dispel all the monsters
away in my mind
philosophy away, leaving an echo
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 3:13 AM UTC
the
bamboo shoot
sprouts and prospers.
the sun shines uninterrupted.
soothing rain softens silken soil.
fruitful days
pass into crisp nights
pass into weeks into months.
soon,
the first cold rains of winter
drip on leaves which have less strength.
winds weave, which are
laced with scents and
threads of a frosted siberia.
the bamboo looks left
looks right
at other bamboo shoots
which have grown too
and always remained close by.
the bamboo looks up at the
now fogging sky
looks down
and realizes
it's newfound
fear of heights.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Syncopated with the earthly trumpets,
Silvery milk harps silhouetted the scene,
Golden tolling thunder fogging from the deep,
Fanatics drawing deathly dream-like breaths,
Wrapping around the candle drums.
Suns and moons kissed our eyes,
We all laughed at our disguise,
All truth had become all lies,
From the ground all ties were cut,
Floated to the center,
Earthly lives and candle drums,
Take away the dying block,
Gracious resounding turbulence,
Time stopped for heavenly hell,
Came apart and brought back with spell,
We all fell and resurrect tonight.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
9:43 on a frigid clear morning, the morning I made the conscious decision to stand as far as possible from the dropoff to the train tracks, and an older gentleman next to me, newspaper folded, saying "It's a cold one today, isn't it". And I smiled in agreement and I drank my overpriced coffee, fogging up the sky.
10:13 on the train, unwashed windows turning the sun dirty-bright, and I didn't drift off for it as all the men in suits and flatlined mouths slowly did.
And 11:36 in the City, a man I had decided not to love and his sarcastic appreciation of modern art, and me laughing endlessly. And this man showing me his secret hideouts and telling me secret stories, stories that you earn. I had decided not to love him, though, and so I didn't. It was easy because he had made no such call.
And 5:52 in his marble high-rise and his bed that was bigger than my bed, on it, he told me he had decided not to love me too. And then we kissed, and kissed, with nothing-to-lose moving our hands and mouths all over each other. Nothing-to-lose tangling his sheets and relaxing our heartbeats, and making them audible.
8:04 on the night of the morning I began to fear the third rail and the whoosh of the New Haven line, a bruise on my neck and my kiss-swollen mouth flashed red and dirty-bright to the post-commuters, and the man I forgot not to love still in the city, and the feeling of peaceful but irreversible damage heavy on my lap.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
He sat fogging up the glass by the window pane
Watching the aftermath of a great white storm
and as he sipped his hot cup of tea
He remembered his youth with his bride lucy
When they were fresh healthy and bright
They'd sit by the fire on a cold winters night
and cherish the time spent in laughter drinking wine
But oh my friend how time goes by
Lucy's hair had changed it was as white as the snow
and her laughter had change into untangible moans
and Lucy couldnt remember those old fiery nights
Lucy was always confused and full of fight
No matter what the doctors say
The man waits for that very special day
When Lucy turns red blushing with smiles and says
Oh my Love remember when...
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
the sky was crying
I could already tell she was lying
... why is this happening to me
earlier experiences omen the bad to come
but lately the bad's been so seldom
... I didn't want it to be
when it happen, I wasn't mad at you then
in all honesty, I wanted to be your friend
... pass anger your eyes couldn't see
in that moment, out of desperation
you made things worse by fogging the situation
... now no one will believe your plea
in the future, own up to what you've done
don't be dishonest and try to run
... the truth will set you free
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
I put this cigarette between my lips
in the foolishness of maybe
it could make me poeticize.
Ingenuous thought when I know the only
drug able to mess with all my system is you.
More effective than nicotine, fogging all my mind
More dense than an smoke that I stubborn to
take to my lungs, your smell clogs my aerial vias.
More rough than the cigarette material
rubbing my fingers, your words scratch my skin.
More agonizing than abstinence, *your distance makes
me writhe inside my own body,* facing an intern fight
that always end in riot because I can’t decide between
leave you on your own luck or convince you that
we can be the lucky of each other.
And here is the living proof, here is the poetry
that i’m only able to extract from the collateral
damage caused by you.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
Fever tickles your forebrain
Bad thoughts dribble down your nose
Like syrup off my fingertips
Coughing up cheaply made lies
And selling them for the price
Only minimum wage parasites can ****
The propaganda of self pity
Fogging up your vision
Like car windows stained with
Frustrated ********** (or *******
Sliding straight down your legs
Where your tongue is heavy
Too depressed to form a sentence
Yet thirsty enough to swallow
Thirteen million restless presents
Scrambling around
Clawing their way up the back
Of your throat
Where the sun sets pink
between your teeth
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:13 PM UTC
We live in Glass Boxes.
Made up of love, joy, and
happiness, anger, pain,
and hate. We knock on windex'd
walls, shouting for
someone to break our
boundaries.
No one's box is made
the same. Everyone's glass
cracks different ways. The
sun sends patterns across our
skin, staining us with
experiences that build who
we will become.
I press my nose to the glass,
fogging my walls with
the haze of heavy breathing.
My eyes squint for you,
searching desperately for your
Glass home...but no matter
how hard I try, you're
always just out of sight.
I hear on the wind that your
glass is changing. Chipping
away to the pressures of
****** It's all I can do not
to claw my walls. I know these
bleeding nails would be
my only triumph.
So I sit in my Glass Box, bitter
at the rays of color that
turn my home into a rainbow
prism. The paradox of it all
enough to make my head pound.
Is it even fair to be happy?
When you're off, all alone,
drowning in you're own pain?
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
To feel
All and intensely
To care
Fully and endlessly
Is it weak?
Or is a strength?
Confusion fogging my mind,
I struggle to accept my empathy
For people
For situations
Not relevant to my own
But relevant enough
To consume me
In second hand grief
I’m drowning
Yet emerging
Can I handle these emotions
And still support those in need?
It’s a question I constantly ponder.
With another outbreak,
It’s a question I need to answer.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 10:03 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, some memories haunt us to the grave---they never fade:|
I put the space
mere a distance
and air to redeem
for the desk to choke the
fogging steam
heavy unspoken glares of things untold a gleam
nears and approaches some spites that repeat
if walls at least could shout could scream
lines would be spit to the ultimate some tense perched
meant on bits of merged
known subtles
left on the bottles
shaped from knuckles
inherited not chuckles
reds on the addicting muffles
------ravenfeels
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 7:20 PM UTC