"fuzziness" poems
When Technology died,
some of us merely shrugged and
Tried to go back to before...
Only it wasn't the same...
So many hard-wirings gone,
So many places where we used to go,
So many thoughts we used to know,
Forgotten in an ethereal swirl...
Internetted and forgotten.
Power plants done, and no more juice
To feed along the sagging wires.
Once the Internet went down,
(Without so much as a diminishing blip
Of dying light (cathodes were gone)),
Ah, Lord, we missed the ethereal glow...
Screens now dead and flat,
Unable even to reminisce
The comfort-glow of former irritants,
The fuzziness 0f electronic snow....
And telephones! My Lord!
To think of how we used to talk!
Electronic prayers, each other we implored...
So much connected,
We forgot the depths of face to face,
Now cellular paperweights lie dormant,
Longing for at least a little life,
Reminding us those days are gone.
We pass our little news
Word of mouth now,
Word of mouth to ear,
Only if the ones
We want to know are near.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
At times I feel socially awkward
hiding away those eyes from contact
mumbling and stuttering
as though I were stumbling,
upon the words as I was discovering.
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk
when I rush out,
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk,
when I don’t open your messages.
I escape out of nervosity
I feel the fuzziness in my head
butterflies in my stomach
nervosity in my nerves
lack of air in my lungs
tremble in my muscles
and the gritting of my teeth on my nails
as it drains every ounce of energy out of me.
I hide behind shadows
so I don’t encounter any social interaction.
No matter how many times I plan
and play a conversation in my head
I shudder and fret in reality,
making myself look like an awkward mess.
I want to be friends
I want to say hi
but the words do not escape
for I feel tongue tied.
I feel conscience and dreadful
for being such an awkward mess
choking on words
unable to let them
escape my tongue.
I am thinking
more than I am speaking
I can have a conversation in my head
but somehow, I find it difficult in reality.
But then you reach out
and make the first move
It makes it easier;
only to find myself
being an embarrassment once again.
But you don’t judge
you play it cool
and remain patient
you still show an eager to talk
and maybe that was what I needed
to be comfortable and me.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
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The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
They had begun to question consciousness,
turning solid matter into fuzziness in their brains,
rendering not atoms, nor photons, nor particles,
only cold energy, halucenogenic stardust joints.
For the exclusionary few to whom the material
had never meant **** to a tree or a **** to a rabbit,
it was the cash-cow of quantum reality,
ambiguous poetry for a Beat Generation,
Uncertainty in free verse chapbooks.
So they wrote of our interconnectedness ---
the Ginsbergs, the Levertovs, the Ferlinghettis ---
till the gravity of space-mind curved imagination,
a nation falling unheard without a whimper in the forest.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
You were my angel
Covered me in every angle
Brought true happiness
Unexplainable fuzziness
Men if only I can stand
I promise I wont pretend
Be with you till the end
You brought the best in me
And left the worst in me
Dreams turned to nightmares
Days turned into nights
My world turned upside down
Smiles became a gloomy frown
Still today you hold the crown
My queen of my magical dream
Can I eat you up like ice cream?
I Love You, wherever you are, faraway...
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Cottonwood falling,
A snow in July,
Filling the air with fluffy flakes
And covering the world with
White fuzziness.
We're riding,
Just as fast as we can,
Racing,
Stirring up the drifts
While the wind blows the avalanche closer.
I feel warm,
Being so close to you and the sun.
A warm snow--
Don't you think that's ironic?
I love the snow,
I love your heat.
My heart is going as fast as we are,
Fifty, Sixty, Seventy miles an hour.
I embrace you closer,
This thrill of a panicking soul,
It's magic.
Keep me in this illusion of a
Peaceful time.
Lift me sky high,
Let me fall in warmth like this
Snow in July.
I feel so free,
So young and bright eyed,
A naive star
In a Hollywood movie.
Let's get out of this small town,
Let's make new memories together.
I want to see the world,
I want to see the highlight,
With our song,
The one where we sing along.
Tonight,
Our love is a song,
A soundtrack to
A snow in July.
We can see the world
Together.
No need for others to ruin our
Loving silence.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Accepting quantum fuzziness and discreteness,
u-h-d allows the idea of seeing one thing is not the other,
über aber ich weis nicht
focus, this is spiritual, not religious, this is inner-bubble space,
pick a hat, here's a Dumbo feather
… "and called it macaroni."
A line forms an ancient meme, in the Spirit of America,
dancing children singing and waving tri-colors,
performing grammar school maypole pageants
in conjunction with the ashtorothean rites called passion,
feeling earth warm to the dance of our
sowing of the seed, celebrate, the coming of the sun
to the appointed time as time is measured
on the stone that bhers witness to our we formed spirit.
We are walkers along the spiral, twisting this way then
to that once,
you felt me make a point you felt was your tic to on point,
alert,
predictions pile in unverifiable belivable, but easy to believe,
life is good, in terms of essential being, elemental preceptions
glimpse of something super-semantic tic super symmetrick
not having seen hell, from the perspective of the conqueror,
leaves any weapon fit to fight the reality hell forms
unique,
unlike any weapon as yet imagined better, truth as a concept
any mind may form to hold,
from holding nothing, as a thought, then in a word caught
as thought
think this is the trick to quantum being, be
a bit.
See how it does feel to be real, ah, as in Wings of Desire,
I knew I did not suffer through that film in vain.
Anthro-poor-morphed angels imagined as unread messages,
felt where good is the only thing ever
felt real,
as real as any angel's kiss, but just a kind word heard, as thought.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 4:04 PM UTC
She hardly was an early riser.
Life at home for her was hell.
Violent voices
and mean threats.
She wrote this on a sunny start of the week, monday.
The sun seemed to have been greatly amused at her wrinkled face.
Recently, she discovered she would release a ****
whenever anxiety or nervousness hit her like a dart.
Her daily life began by 4:30am.
There she was in comfort on her irregular bed,
till a sharp light hit her face
and a thunderous voice boomed her ear drums,
His foot steps made so much sound than his voice.
It was her father.
It wasnt his voice that struck her,
or was it the sight of a whip that he wielded so callously.
It was the angry look he always beared on his face.
It was almost as if he was angry with God for waking him up everyday.
Mixed feelings of fright and fuzziness gripped her
she hastily greeted
He didnt respond.
Her sister stood behind her bed
whimpering in fear.
Only then did she discover who the whip was meant to trash at that moment.
The night before
was a nightmare she have seen before.
Her ingredients failed her,
her attention
and her organization
towards the food preparation.
Her Mom hated excuses
Her Dad hated losses and bad soups.
Her promises flew away
Phone accessories became her get-away.
It wasnt the intensity of the funny smell,
or the intense awareness of the pepper and salt,
but it was the searing look her mum had.
Her mom must have mentally shredded her like cabbage, she thought.
Her mom wondered why arguements stuck in her tongue like a tatoo.
Most times she resented her awkward behaviour,
She saw life has an eazy game.
She thought mistakes were a part of our imperfection as human beings and hence should be constantly made.
She didnt understand why God placed her in that family.
Her mom would constantly remind her of the future
She could hear her voice in her sleep
Her mom would speak with her eyes
when her anger has reached a certain height.
Hereditry
played a role
in her usual condescesion.
The environment
played a role
in her usual sadistic talk and thinking.
Yin and Yang,
Cold and Hot,
the order of seasons
Either you can change
or you can not.
Such is the nature of Monica.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Tammy,Tammy,call your mammy
daddy's run away.
Buildings built of stilton cheese and Wilton rugs,bugs that run round in my head,silver diamond ten gauge thread to tie my eyes up.
Tea leaves tell no lies,
I've seen them in a broken cup where broken people all look up to watch me fall.
I call the Master of Ceremonies,also made of Stilton cheese,eaten slowly by the mice,made from chocolate covered rice cake crisps and baked in ovens,gas mark seven and ask him,
where did daddy go?
he doesn't know and never did and slowly drops off from the grid,
in hidden thoughts behind veiled red eyes where riots run with teddy boys,who ride Italian imported scooter bikes,
twenty thousand Facebook likes for what,
a **** *** underneath the bed?
more bugs that run wild in my head,
another silver,sugar coated thread to wrap me in when I am dead,
but I'm not there yet
I've got to shift the fuzziness,the interfering laziness,be blessed twice by his Holiness,undress the dressings I am wrapped in,bleach my skin and reach inside to clear my mind.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
its getting bad again.
i can tell.
around every dark corner its there waiting for me.
for the past four months depression has been subdued and had been just a back thought.
just a thought of suicide. never thinking if how or when
two days ago i felt my brain become fuzzy and unclear like it had before
i began to think about the act of killing myself.
i thought of hanging myself
i thought of overdosing
i thought of slitting my throat and letting my body bleed out
but instead of killing myself i broke a 4 month promise i made to myself
i cut myself
not deep enough to do much damage but deep enough to feel the pain and annoyance of fresh cuts
ive been so scared to get bad again and its back and its going to be worse than ever
the fuzziness is back and its constant
i dont have many clear moments
depression blurs reality and brings in false perception of my moments
i dont feel right
nothing calms my thoughts
im becoming numb with fear of myself but ive never been so comfortable
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Thy furry ****** fur that do not glow,
It show not social status, worth or wealth,
Upon thy lovely face thy make it grow,
Yet flatter thee it does not, bring no health.
What is the purpose of thy fuzziness?
Dost thou wish to appear more masculine?
Dost burgeoning of dark bring happiness?
Thou wishest to appear more than thy kin?
But while my dislike for thy beard is true,
Thou art a lady lovely, sweet and fair,
And while she love your eyes of green and blue,
She loveth all thine scruffy ****** hair.
So while I feel thy lookest like a ***
She still believe you shineth like the sun.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 7:16 AM UTC
A callous darkness hides in the
Haze of your burnished body
You run your icy fingers through
My gossamer hair and a hazel fuzziness
Leaks through your chocolate eyes.
I mutter silent requests of mercy
As your intrepid skin steals into the
Fragility of my crystal soul, reducing it
To splattered relics of harrowing passion.
Your lust burns like spilled neglect
And tastes like rotten coffee;
With every painful sip that strikes
My lips, it sings like a sonnet of love
And with every tepid sip that incinerates
My throat, it burns like a gentle eulogy.
You’re the parchment, stealing the
Expressions of my artless love, and
the obsidian ink tattooing my fragile heart
With gestures of an intricately
Woven melody of a foreseen loss.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
everyday is an exertion
if you look hard enough
you can see my brain
in two places at once
but being this competent
has a consequent price
& I'm not even sure how to explain it
it seems with every accomplishment
i get further caught up in my abilities
my talents being a by-product
of unattainable stress
that i'll never be able to recognize
so when its time to shutdown
& cool off from the heat of the days work
i'm always stuck in the warmth of it
the fuzziness over my head
the future tasks awakening me
digging burrows in my skin
& nesting upon my amygdala
emotional strain detached
until the time comes when
the stress of accomplishment
becomes too much for even me
the double tasking
anxious achiever
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Hurricane season
All throughout my cotton pocket
Comfort, such a tricky muse,
I found it!
Nope.. that’s not it.
But it was, a subtle fuzziness,
My nerves suddenly honey dipped
The sweetest,
**** here comes the bees
& once again i’m running stiff.
Freest when i’m knotted up
I gotta bottle up
The ****** such and such
Until I’m still enough to drift beyond the cusp
The same setting sun,
The same son will set unsettled.
Another silent night,
Another fight against the nettles.
I need a rest,
To feel closer to death.
To keep me at my best.
It’s like a test,
Each time I lay in bed.
I have to try my best.
To stay there,
Blankets wrapping round me
Don’t ground me.
Still awake,
I lay, awaiting sleep to come and drown me.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
i first felt confused.
everything seemed to slip between my fingers
were they even my fingers?
now i was completely terrified.
this sense that everything was foreign like i've never seen these surrounding in my entire lifetime.
i didn't
couldn't feel myself.
my
it
those fingers.
i saw them move as fingers do, but they didn't seem like my hands, my fingers, my flushed palms.
it felt surreal.
even the people i knew seemed unknown to my eyes.
it gave me this churn in my stomach.
a churn that screamed "danger".
but why?
don't i know these people?
i should know how they act
how they talk
how they walk
how they move.
but when i saw them talk
when i studied how their lips formed around words
i heard nothing.
there was no familiarity in their voice and the words they spoke from their mind to their tongues.
it sounded
like static.
like white noise.
the nothingness that's heard in a room of complete silence.
i felt like white noise.
that fuzziness; the pins and needles kind when you haven't moved in hours.
i could've brushed it off.
maybe tried to refocus my brain into thinking that
"yes. all of this is familiar. don't be so dumb."
but i couldn't.
all i felt was bile in my throat as i internalized my imminent panic.
it was settling there in the pit of my stomach all because
i couldn't recognize my own voice.
i couldn't recognize their faces.
i couldn't recognize where i was nor could i recognize why i was there in the first place.
what was my purpose?
why do i wake up, go to school, come home, sleep.
why do i do these things that give me little to no substance in my life?
this regular schedule
of constance.
that's what caused this white noise.
the white noise that pressed anxiety and stress into my chest
making it heavier
making it harder to breath
making it worse.
i hated it.
but i couldn't do anything about it.
this white noise.
oh, how much i despised the thing.
but
all i can do is revel in the moment until it passes.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it smells of drugstore perfume, daisies
mixed with something attempting
to be sweeter than sugar
when its truly salt
swirled together with
arsenic and my vapid feelings.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it feels like static, like the fuzziness
on television screens and the
sensation of the wires in my
brain snapping from this exhaustion
that was never there till i
gave up on the phantom innocence i'd been
clinging to in the hopes it
was still clinging onto the shreds of
clothing at my feet.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it looks as though everything has been
painted monochrome. it's a series
of hazy greys and blurry whites, but
it's mostly a black delved so dark
i can't see anything through it; it's
not transparent enough to even
glance at the stars blinking down
toward the earth because the nighttime
won't let me see anything but mysteries
and untouched memories.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it tastes like blood, so much
blood. there's metal on my tongue
and it's everywhere because there's no
knife anywhere, just this transpiercing
pain in my stomach and my lungs are
being sliced open and the gore of my guts
is spilling onto the tile floor and there's
blood covering my hands and my
face is cracking against concrete and
i'm puking rainbows again
and it tastes of heartsickness.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it sounds like nothing. it's
the kind of nothing that
everyone notices: the breath that
stops when one gets the news
that their loved one is leaving
them for good, the nothing after
a performance that's left everyone
contemplating the universe and love
and whether i actually want to
live at all, the silence following
the coffin being shut. it's the nothingness
of sobs and heartbreak and
death. it's the sound of
loneliness - particularly mine.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
It took a year to get over you
To store you away in my memories with a wall that couldn't be broke through
To Learn how to look away in the hallways
To walk straight and not runaway
To put aside the anger
To hang the blame up on a hanger
Then you come and talk to me
You let those memories break free
My eyes can only fix on your eyes
I'd follow you up into the skies
I glow with happiness
I fill with fuzziness
What's wrong with you?
After all you put me through?!
Now I fear
It's gonna be another year
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
What is my labyrinth?
The suffering of loneliness
The quiet calm of my empty rooms
Or the silent screams of my crowded mind
How do I escape this labyrinth?
The fuzziness of an inhibited brain
Doesn't last for long
There is no permanent escape
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
the soft,
farmiliar
fuzziness
of your blanket.
the humbling
wall art
comforting
house
a place
where you feel
safe.
the movie
starts.
walls
become tall
narrow,
you never noticed
the way the
darkness
lingers
in the far back corner
so that you
are never quite sure
of what
could be hiding there.
even after
you turn on the lights
you still
tiptoe
through the hallway
peeking
at every turn
swear
you heard something
swear
it's hiding
waiting to get you
scamper
to your bedroom
lock
the door
fall asleep
with the lights on
little did you know
it appears
when you are
asleep.
lurking
watching your every
toss and turn
waiting
for the perfect chance
to strike.
don't
close your eyes
don't
sleep
it will
devour
you.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
it says something about them not you
contextualize...
be in the moment, breathe
you have to date a lot
ok, but **** it hurts and ***** and I don't need this right now when
I'm scared and things are changing and so much depends on that interview
or does it and if you're in a frying pan, and jump out only into flames you are still not
safe
Own that reality as you own your own words and experience and look at that person
who rejected you and think: how much do I really like him and
stick with that, because chances are, it's not as much as you think
it's more about that primordial childhood abyss inside where love and warmth and fuzziness should have been but weren't but you are not that child anymore
and knowing that will save you.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
the feeling before is the worst
when I know I'm going but I can't stop
it's blurred vision fuzziness
and then bees on fire
dark and wooshing
and I'm out
for 3 minutes or 10
I can never be sure
it's like being in a pool with your eyes closed
but not wet
and I dream
the dreams are the strangest of my life
they are dreams without thought
dreams without shape
color is felt
liquid is breathed
thoughts are as solid as non-Newtonian fluids
when I wake up
I'm still in the dream
still in the dark colors and thrashing out of it
then it's cold tiredness
even if the room is as hot as my face
from the embarrassment of having people look at me
even when people are just my mom staring at me while we sit by the side of the road
best case scenario is when I'm at home in bed
it's so much worse when people are around
hitting concrete and have to be taken away on a stretcher
through a school full of kids who will be talking about that girl who fainted
when I came back every one stared and asked how I was
I didn't know how to act and I did't know what to say
but it faded like my consciousness did
until it happened again
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
Warm and fuzziness is the feeling I crave
That feeling that everything is OK, with me, the world,
the sun is shining, I'm out of that dank cave
And there's one way to get it, even though I know even though I've been told
through science I know, there are really two ways
Science isn't poetic, but it explains and you can understand it
Doesn't change much of anything in how you feel as you go along
I feel like I'm living through a ****** Kesha song
and that is sad and just plain wrong
Men. They can give me, that seratonin high
And there's nothing better, although I've looked well nigh
everywhere and run down train tracks, into seedy bars,
took those pills in plastic bags and ***** jars,
it always comes back to that one elusive feeling
that floating, I am attractive, enough and everything will be just fine
And I'd drink a case of wine
except I know it wouldn't take me there,
just make me sick, and lie around making a rat's nest of my hair
It makes me seem desperate
For the guy who is experiencing me and it
I don't even have to like him
He just has to turn a kind eye and off I go
That's how I entangled with my X I know
I didn't even like him much, but off I went
and ended up married under one of those Jewish tents
So one call and I'm high
And then an hour later it's over and I'm low
There is only one thing I know
I must take the sage advice
that I've paid a high price
for
and that is: this feeling, to myself I can give
and if I learn that I won't feel like this
I can, anyone can, renew from the inside out
I don't have to walk around in helpless doubt
But it's the hardest thing in the world
harder than the butterfly stroke
that I'd never tried to learn
I wish there were drugs in some ancient urn
and I'd walk a thousand miles on my knees
until they were bloodied
to plunge my hand in and consume that thing
or I wish at least I had some book
that could teach me how to get there, or at least how it would look
Just be here, science says, that's all it does. It's not enough.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
Mix a little bit of city lights,
You know-
the ones that shine amidst the fog
leaving traces of sparkling stars
While busy cars create a dancing scene
amongst a stage of black pavement;
Take that moment and
swirl in a perfectly pastel,
left open like a door-
blazing in the breeze
country sky.
Colors that are so perfect
you'll wonder who choose them,
And how they learned
to create a masterpiece like that-
Gently mix those two together and
You got something pretty intense
But to get the perfect inspiration
You have to make it a little more dense.
Mix a little bit of snuggle,
The kind that combines heartbeats,
while wrapping you up like a blanket
who's fuzziness
leaves you feeling warm
like a cabin fire
Warm like your hearts desire,
Warm and wanting more-
And a dab of midnight kisses-
The ones that
have you tasting sweet breath for hours,
The kind of kiss that can't go sour-
The kisses that make your toes curl,
your head whirl;
Allow to sit for lifetimes,
Simmering on happy thoughts
Bubbling with laughter that you can see
While slowly turning a perfect golden brown
A love once lost but may be found-
A recipe for inspiration.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
*I like the twists and turns of phrases
And how they cause smudges of fuzziness
In my mind and anything that
Stirs this obsession is an instant fascination.
I levitate through the time and space of imagination
I flip and flop on phrases and hard sounding words
With mild reckless abandon
And it’s the one instance I throw caution to the wind.
Before a duck’s done shaking its tail
These words coalesce
Into ideas of grandeur and almost immediately
Like quicksand disappear beneath my mind’s feet
Shortest “lease” conceivable.
Soon “after-words” a state of normalcy’s restored.*
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
Oh my God
Have you ever felt this?
Man, its great
You become one with viscus
And his holy ember
watch the poppy smoke curl
Into 3 dragons
blowing smoke into the
in
finite
bed time
I can see your magezine
left upon your side table
but it is boring to me
speaking to me without sound
I can hear muffled echoes
in some alluring ancient tongue
Riddle me this
sweet Adeline
why have they gone and put the roof
where your feet should be walking
why do you have a slipknot Cd?
Why do you have empty pill bottles on the floor?
Why are your posters coming to life
And pestering me for the time of
Roger I will get you as a tattoo on my fore arm
if it is the last thing I do
I was gonna get that poem of Helen's done too
In perfect script
oh Helen your words are so beautiful
I want to mold them to.my spirit
I want to.wrap them upon my arms
and sell them to.the poor and blind
The fuzziness is returning now
Telling me to go the **** to sleep
and if I never wake up again....
I want you to know that I love you
I love you I love you
I love
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC