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13 Apr 2015
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.
Posted on December 16, 2014
breadwords Aug 2014
there is an astronaut
strangled by weeds and
built in cubits
fogging up the window
that can shield from the sun’s halitosis

I shake hands with the older twin
before the rigor sets muscles on fire
ptolemaic systems dancing
around around around
this is how the captain heeds god’s call

there is an astronaut
the head resting on shoulders
sclera white as a sunlight prism
iris imprisoning the reflection
of laughter and unease

I can look at the entire earth
while sitting in a computer chair
but what the astronaut sees
embedded in the effete cosmos
I imagine even the stars laugh along with you
Luna Jul 2014
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
Sydney Ann Feb 2015
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
Nico Julleza Mar 2018
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.
#MoonBright #Humanity #Haunting #WeAreOne #Nature #LoveInOne

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2018
Isabel Apr 2018
Trying to juggle at 1am,
Trying to catch those ******* *****,
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 *****.
Luisa C Sep 2016
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.
Sub Rosa Mar 2013
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.
Sydney Victoria Dec 2012
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,
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
Well Had An Adventure Last Night At The Hospital.
What's with these car windows,
Fogging up as you tell me to calm down?
I take deep breaths
And try not to make the sound
That's building up within me
Moans that are far too loud
I'm arching my back
And and squirming around
What's up with these car windows?
Fogging up when you tell me to calm down.
sweatshop jam Jan 2014
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.
barnoahMike Dec 2010
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.
Copyright  2010  by barnoahMike      Mike  Ham
laura Oct 2018
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
help i seriously dont know why this is explicit
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
From afar I knew her at school,
We talked once or twice,
She was a beauty you see.
Having a boyfriend elsewhere.

Came our Senior All Night Party,
Planned out all very cool.
After an afternoon Graduation,
Our entire class of several hundred
Embarked on a private train,
Eight passenger cars,
An Engine and caboose.
All Just for us.

As a class officer I was in the entry car,
Handing out handshakes to the guys,
And goodby kisses to the girls,
(One last chance to flirt.)

Until she, the leggy blond came along.
That kiss was not fleeting, not congratulatory,
If was mutually passionate and assuredly sincere.
It took my breath away, she tasted of lipstick
And honey, sweet as can be.

Minutes later we found ourselves
In a compartment, mostly alone,  
Stayed there though out the,
90 mile train excursion,
Discovering each other as
Young Lovers should.
Nothing seedy,
Nothing inappropriate,
Just kissing until our lips hurt,
And I felt like I might explode.
This beautiful long legged girl,
And I, fogging the windows up,
All Fireworks and night flares,
Like a steamy magic act on the rails.
Other people came and went,
But we hardly took notice of them.
Lost in a little world of our own.

We reached Oakland,
Departed the train,
Went aboard a three level,
Red Line Cruse Boat
And sailed away.
Two bands, music,
And just a little *****,
High on kisses, Royal Crown,
Jack Denials’ Black Label.              
All night on the Bay water,
A little dancing too, as I recall.

Then back at the Pier by six.
Breakfast and return train trip.
Somewhere along the way,
We lost track of each other,
Too many people,
All moving and shoving,
Friends pulling us in different direction,
Too tired to protest I guess.
I found a place to fall asleep and did.
And just like that it was over.

The next day and for years,
It all seemed like a dream.
How does that happen?
What had we both been feeling
For those four school years,
But had never expressed,
To ourselves or each other,
That put us together on that journey,
Of Steel Tracks and Water Adrift?

During those years,
What passions had we stifled,
All for lack of opportunity?
Both dating other people,
Busy moving blindly through adolescents,
As kids will do, with no real clue.   

After the train ride,
That ship on the Bay,
It was off to college,
And new friends with which to play,
Events and time took over, and
We both went our own ways.

For the first time, since that night,
I saw her some weeks ago.
And she still looks the same.
It’s been many years,
But she has not changed.
Lovely as ever and still my friend.
Both of us laughed as we talked,
Fondly recalled that night on the train.
She now a widow and me on my own.

Living 600 miles apart,
We email back and forth,
Pen Pals we tell ourselves,
And each other.

What was I thinking?
Back in those days.
How did I let her get away?
I suppose “Stuff” and something,
Called Life merely got in the way.

Now every day,
The first thing I do,
After I let out the dogs,
And brew a cup of Joe,
Is open my Email files,
To see if she is there.
So pleased when she is,
A little sad when she’s not.
For CJ my friend.
CR Jan 2013
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 *****-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 *****-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.
Wack Tastic Nov 2012
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.
Danielle Rose Feb 2013
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...
MonkeyZazu May 2015
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
Even though she holds the liability
Even though her actions and lying are making things hard for me
I still feel sorry for her.
Is that wrong?
Chaotic Melodic Aug 2010
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
© Cory McQueen
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

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?
I think about you every day, I don't know what to do. It feels as if you're already dead.
Owen Phillips Mar 2013
Going crazy in the normalest way
So jealous, so alone
The world doesn't open up to me
Because I press my face against glass doors
The windshields are fogging as I focus in on my disgusting and shameful acts of mutual *******
Waiting till life comes knocking at the window with a flashlight
Asking me to touch my nose,
Walk a straight line

You make me wanna **** myself
But I don't wanna die
I've just run out of ways to make you
Look into my eyes
I'm standing at a crossroads with nothing on all sides
No matter where I walk the future's always past the sunrise

I get up late each morning
Forget what I was dreaming
The memory of my eternal self
Floating through infinite kaleidoscopic
Worlds of pure imagination
Fades as easily as the lurid detail
Of the *** dreams I wake from in paranoid self-delusion

The church marquees say the skies open soon
But they lie
How could the answer to my woes be shining at me on the roadside
Between home and community college?
Everything is everywhere
But thus far NOTHING is here
There's an invisible dome over our heads
And none crane their necks to see beyond
The social order needs tending to
The community garden can wait
We'll always be able to survive on
Just-in-time produce deliveries
To our nearest grocery store
We have more important concerns
Like the meaningless jobs devised
By an unthinking static regime
To grow the economy and keep us from every questioning this way of life
The American way, the baby boomer's dream
Hidden within a shaded alcove
Of the barren wasteland we decided would suit the planet better
Than an unlimited, self-regulating biosphere
Powered by solar energy and God's will

We really did eat the fruit of the tree
But we didn't let it **** our egos
We didn't break on through
Adam and Eve didn't know the machine elves
And if they did the Vatican will have no mention of it
We must no longer be individuated consciousness
But we fail to see that we are ALREADY ONE
With each other
And everything
Even I cannot see it
When I spite my own flesh and blood
For a little bit of sensual grokking
Drinking in green eyes and pink lips

No jealousy!
I am you!
We are me!
Where does this jealousy come from?
The inability to SEE
Fleur Jan 2011
I've been thinking
the art of speaking
auditory rhythms
and the like
in my very personal
these audio utterances
so often used
by the population
have become
like pollution
fogging gracelessly
over the small drops
of wisdom
in near silence
if you actually listen
you'll probably hear them
under the blurtations
of the unconsidered
thoughtless thoughts
they're there.
If you listen
the art of quiet
uncovers many surprises
Amour de Monet May 2014
there is something beautiful about a memory
that reaches from the pit of your stomach
latches onto your heart
and pulls it under your lungs
placing you in a moment
that once saturated the marrow of your bones

when you close your eyes you can
feel, see, and be just as it was
with carrots, a park bench, the night sky,
a bottle of spanish wine
and his arms cradling you against
the chilling wind

it takes you so deeply into
the inscription he carelessly carved
across the back of your eyes that
when you open them again and exhale
you find it fogging the midsummer air
releasing the very breaths you took
by his side
Jay Bain Sep 2011
Less like wine
quickening to scarlet;
more like tea, bitter
camomile; milk drops
fogging the steam.

I see you in night
red-shifted, tongue tip
seething your teeth;
I feel it as you shrug-
like in one breath
you exhale
me out.

- Jay Bain, 2011
Gabriela F Jul 2016
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.
Katryna Dec 2013
two candles but they're only your eyes.
twisting and contorting, and they can articulate your desires better than your mouth ever could.
candle wax only exists on the crests of your cheekbones when your eyes have been blazing for days.
they drip down in patterns that God himself could only hope to decipher.
your eyes as they burn are subjective only to the sound of her voice, or the curvature of her body as it writhes beneath you.
your visceral reactions have nothing on the hidden semantics that litter her skin.
ubiquitous presences gazing down at you, gazing down at her, windows fogging and cracking.
now, This is Poetry
          This is Catharsis
this is raining hell down on her until she's every saturated colour she could never define.
like forcing her to write every pro and con of sleeping on the floor while you held a gun to her head.
and she knows better than to scream with the lights turned on.
give me guided meditation as a self defence mechanism.
give me self reflection as a form of shock therapy.
give me militant offensive tactics.
give me blood, give me a martyr.
whisper her name into the sheets and send them into space.
and let them drift along forever.
and send her into space after them.
and admire the way it can rob her of her last breath the way you never could.
maybe now you can look yourself in the eye in the mirror.
maybe you can stop burning all those ******* candles.
maybe now you can stop trying to burn yourself down.
Jillyan Adams Dec 2012
The tiny starfish hands pressed on both my cheeks. Her heart trembling in her sea-washed, sky-gray eyes. Little delicate lips pressed in an adult line of barely-controlled emotion. The *****, dully-shining tear streaks that drew paths through her freckles. Butterfly kisses, I would tease her as I swept her into the salty air.

I have to focus. I steel myself, dragging memories from the back of my clouded mind and setting them before my fogging eyes. I refuse to let them slip away again. I could never live with myself if I did.
I had said something to her. Ignore the fact that I can’t remember what it was. She smiled through the tears, her laugh a reminder that she wasn’t the adult she was trying desperately to be - that I was forcing her to be. I had wrapped her in my arms for the last time, lifted her toddler body easily from the sand. She held onto me tighter than I thought she could - another underestimation, I suppose. My neck started running with her tears. I hummed her song through a choked throat.

“Momma loves you.”

Fairly standard, as far as last words go. But sufficient. I am satisfied. Flashes of that day, the departure, boarding the ship, lacking the strength to watch my daughter fade into nothing behind me, spin past my eyes with increasing speed. Funny, everything else has slowed. The water makes my limbs sluggish, the ropes twining like lazy snakes around them. The footsteps of my heartbeat have slowed their pace, leaving longer and longer pauses of silence in their wake. Even the glittering light, what there is of it, is lethargic in its reaches to my nearly-blind eyes.
With all the salt-water clouding my vision, dimming my memories, I could swear the sea knows of my loss. It must: it is weeping with me.
It's not a poem, I know, I know. But a brief review/critique of my brief story is more than welcome. Please and thank you.
E G Fellenstein Jan 2013
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.
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.
Taylor Aldous Dec 2013
There's a girl with her head pressed against the window
She's fogging up the glass
There's a boy with a heart so big, but no one would know
He rarely goes to class
Everyday they see each other
Everyday they stare
Secretly wanting one another
But talk to each other, they don't dare
He sees within her the hidden sorrow
She sees within him his checkered past
Both live like there is no tomorrow
Both have found their soul-mate at last
But cliques and reputation have kept them apart
When did this trend of having to please everyone else even start?

It's sad that fear can hinder us
And take away our chance at love's affections
It hurts to know most encounters are full of lust
And we're too busy criticizing our own reflections
When will we see that its not all about looks?
When will personality come into play?
When will romance exist like it does in the books?
Why do I see people looking through each other everyday?
Are we not all fellow human beings?
Don't we all cry?
So many people say hurtful things
And my question is why?
How can you live in an endless universe and not want to explore the worlds in those around you?
Cant you see the boundless diversity that surrounds you?
This world is full of life and beauty
There is wisdom and there is nature
We should celebrate by doing things for our community
We are not promised a future
I have seen darkness
But I have also seen the light
For the feeling and the joy of love, I will fight
If you have a dream then follow it
**** what everyone else has to say
Through the hardships wont you submit?
The beauty and the tragedy is that today could be your last day
he lured her into his dorm room

her first time there between

the toilet and the shower - steam

fogging the cracked mirror - steam

meant to distill the unmistakable smell

of the crushed greens she inhaled deep

swallowing the fiery magic as he

slipped beside her wanting

to be inside her, he massaged her

back, her shoulders, inching his fingers

up along the sides of her slender

neck trying to knead his way into her

mind the way he wanted, needed

to give her another mind-blowing

experience right there between

the toilet and the shower - steam

turning into sweaty rivulets down

the crack of an arched back - but

submitting to the aching desires

of hungry men was an act

she knew far too well and so -

between the toilet and the shower and the steam

she saw temptation as it was -

a slimy red-eyed serpent

begging her to stay.
Miss Honey Dec 2012
I don’t need to be saved.
I can save myself,
I do it every day.
It is essential that I leave
The wanderlust is fogging up my eyes
and I’m starting to see the cloud that hangs around this town
It’s not the town, I love these mountains
It’s what four walls can hold when hearts escape
Occasional hikes aren’t working
I can’t be motivated by weekend parties
I demand nothing less than wildness
Simplicity, and my home back
I hope you never feel the heartache of losing your home
It was ripped away too soon, when I finally found where I belong
I was taken back to pristine houses that can’t hold dust
When I used to have a cabin that wore its dirt like a diamond necklace
Home will always be you.
Where ice was a friend whose crunches carried under my boots walking to breakfast
When there was nothing better than mashed potatoes we stuffed in tortillas and called tacos
My heart aches to hear bird songs again.
I would give every penny I have to live like that.
Jules Sep 2015
"Bring your gumboots and rain coat, we're going on an adventure"

Lost, going around in circles; embarrassing.
Rainy, sick, "Let's go".
Pizza! Closed... cue more embarrassment.

Car rides along the main street, soft music playing
"Can I borrow that towel for my hair?"
Picks place to eat.
"Let's become humans again"

Dry hair, deodorant, changing shoes.
Horn blaring.
"This looks weird. Windows fogging, horn going, scraggly hair"
Awkward belly laughs.

Best avocado burger and aioli chips ever.
Need practise on being spontaneous
Michael W Noland Nov 2013
Mickey was a murderer
Malevolent and heartless
Likely killed a courier
Tempted by his progress
Made to feel inferior
Delivering the knowledge
His emptied eyed exterior
Empowering the bosses
Always had an an opened ear
Could reinact the process
Always tried to keep it clear
He filtered out the nonsense
Always had a deagle near
Mickeys thoughts were loss less
Always ordered steak and beer
As he slithered from the charges
Always knew the ends as cure
But begginings were the hardest
The waters ever murkier
And fogging up his goggles
Never feared what's lurking there
The details were his doctorate
He knew who was what
And what was where
The devils were his hostages
Only hostile to his care
As he spelled it out with markers
Only rich to others fare
He was cleaning out their closets
As only those who know who dared
Know how they finally lost him
wroxy work Jul 2014
are flitting about my stomach
and down my veins
through my limbs to reach
my very fingertips and
urge me to pass them along –
maybe if you feel the same
our touch will send
sparks flying
and our lips colliding
and then everything will make sense.

i had forgotten what it feels like
to be wary of my posture
and my under-eye circles;
i hope you do not look upon them
and see the sleepless nights
of my past –
because since i have met you
i have never slept so well.

this anxiety all the time
is condensation falling from the glass
to the table
and fogging up the outside
so no one can see in.

my lips have only been stained
by recent 3 a.m. coffee breaks
and constant biting
my cheek and my tongue –
breathing has never felt so
difficultly easy
than it has
around you.

Aubrey Aug 2014
staring into the gaping maw of this relationship.
No teeth.
No dangling tonsil.
No lolling tongue.
Just empty space
... and a foul smell.
like the teeth left holes
ripped out root and all
and festered.
Hot and wet
and fogging up my glasses
bringing tears to my eyes.
I wrinkle my face in confusion,
I am not going to just
sit back..
but that is what you are expecting...
and maybe
what you want.
So, I will sit agape
at the mouth we've rendered toothless;
a union unable
to speak
or eat
or grow.
Just watch
and wait
even in agony
or anger.
I've got time enough to decide
if we can heal this
or put it down...
like a lame horse
a dog with a twisted stomach
a bad habit.
I'm more patient,
more able,
more changed.
I'm more
than you realize.
Heather Moon Jan 2014
Black crows fly above me in the sky. They fly like the wind on a whisper less winter day. They fly in the stream lights of sun, the crisp chill that makes people like chimneys, taking the heat of our internal being and freezing it into steam.

I recall Vancouver at this time, when flimsy white metal iron fences were too cold to touch; when I could see the ***** of frozen water on them, little ice drops. I remember that old Chinese lady, unusual to be a chain smoker but none the less. Outside in her plastic sandals from an Asian dollar store and her hands rubbing briskly as she smoked away. She was older, white haired even. She had some Chinese dolls, golden cats adorning the sides of her door and cement lions greeting faces at her gate.  Her house a “Vancouver special” with red shingled roofs and a flimsy little yard. The chilly morning smog of the city nestled in corners, lingered over sleepy buildings, settled into back doors of coffee shops or swept in a dance with a broom over the awakening shops doormats. Most ladies of the area gardened in their yards or I would catch them sweeping the water off of their back decks but she just sat all day, nothing more to do, just sat, smoking.

The Asian community in Vancouver is vast and big. Chinatown was a mystery to me when I was little. The dragons and fortune cookies, the rows of heads sloping down the hill into the city, the streetlights designed like black gum droplets, gazing at the passer-by’s. My little head opened wide as I held my father’s hand and got lost within the dizzying crowd of fantastic colour and pungent smells like fish or other scents of unknown origin. The unfamiliar language spitting off the tongues of faces I didn’t know. And finally the descent, the bus ride back, the warmth from the heater, warming my little hands that wrapped around a lychee fruit juice box and that golden sun gleaming through the city bus window and strutting on the sidewalks. I would watch the artsy people pass by on the streets, Mohawks, colours, art galleries, and also sophisticated gentlemen in suits or business woman in blazers and heels. Gazing out and seeing each person. Each house each building. Each human, living life so differently yet how similar they all were, we all are. I wonder if I was I just a crescent, a slip in the corners of these people’s eyes. Or perhaps they too recall a similar scene, and in that image within their minds there walks a little girl, ample with curiosity, lost in the wonder.

The crows laugh on electric lines, a time has passed and light drizzles begin to wash over, fogging lines of car windows, drizzling and spraying. The school bus home kind of rain, the one that stains cement and makes sing-song sounds as it drips down the gutters and drainpipes. The rain that makes the colour red pop out, the one that shivers hands and rests on pink cheeks. The crows laugh at my dreaming, as I sit in some old neighborhood leaning on a dumpy alleyways wooden garage door, stuck in some memory. Or rather they laugh because some woman is standing alone in the rain, getting drenched by nature’s eternal bath.
SBohl Oct 2011
Why are the woods so far away?  
I have to drive for hours to get out to the middle of nowhere,
Where nothing is
To be in the middle of everything that makes me feel alive.

I struggle explaining the extreme exhilaration I experience
Of my first few steps into the wilderness,
Untouched by technology,
To the very generation of technology.

It’s as if all the wires that tied me down are released
The second I take a deep inhale of the smell.
The smell of thriving Nature—
The trees
The grass
The tiny streams
The moss
The animals
It all strips away the cords and the stress.
I can breathe freely once again.

Hiking and backpacking
Are the two things that keep me sane
In this fast-paced world.
I constantly feel as if I’m being ****** forward
At a pace that continually picks up speed
And there is
I can do to slow it down.
It’s terrifying.

That’s where my Nature comes in
As soon as I’m in the woods,
The clouds fogging-up my brain disappear
And I am free.

It must be the consistency that calms me.
For the world is ever changing
And barreling into the unknown,
While Nature
Is a beautiful, relaxing cycle.

The trees are my pillars,
But there are no walls to hold me back.
The sky of wondrous colors
The trails of dirt beneath my feet
The insanity of tree roots
Delving in and out of my ground,
Searching for water.

Water that falls from the sky,
To the mountains
To thousands of trickles
That run together to form my rivers
Which are powerful and repetitive
And repetitive
And repetitive enough to shape mountains.

That always amazes me.
Because when you drink from that bottle of water you’re holding,
You don’t think about how powerful it is—
Powerful enough to transform
A mound of rocks and dirt
Into a breathtakingly, beautiful waterfall.

Waterfalls are one of my two favorite wonders.
The other is stars.
Not the stars YOU see
When you look up at night
And can count both of them,
Poking their heads in
To get a look at the goofy humans.

You don’t realize
That the street lamp you’re standing under
Is contributing to drowning out
All the twinkling stArs.

In the woods,
In my Nature,
When the smell of my hard-earned campfire
Envelops me,
I lean back on a log
And I can see them.

My heart stops. . .

And I wonder
Why street lamps were ever invented.
The stars blanket the sky
With a radiant shimmer
In such mass amounts
That you could play connect the dots
And make the Mona-Lisa.

It’s all there.
My Nature is always there.
Just waiting to remind me
That life goes on.

When a tree dies,
Life goes on.
When the water runs low,
It’s just a slow point, and life will go on.
When a friend moves,
Life goes on.
When life is confusing and depressing,
It’s just a slow point, and life will go on.

My Nature is always there.
My Nature isn’t mine
Because I own it,
It’s mine
Because it’s a reliable friend that keeps me sane in this crazy world.
I wrote this for a freestyle speech in a College Freshman composition class in 2009.
Catie Lien May 2010
I've tried putting my best foot forward
Counting the clouds though its absurd
But I'm tripping over my shoe lace
And the rain is falling on my face

Well your hockey *****!
But I like how you skateboard
Never had much luck
Carpe diem is what I'm aiming for
If you plan on killing the music
Promise me you'll let it rest in peace.

You're staring at me through the looking glass
I can't keep hiding my present in the past
But your oxygen's fogging the window
When you live in the future you learn to let go.

[Promise me you'll be waiting at my door
Giving the answers I'm looking for
I'm hopinh you won't slam the door in my face
These questions take air so lets cut to the chase.]

— The End —