Through the Fog

Category: Uncategorized

  • The Weight With No Name

    It’s the shade that arrives without footsteps,

    the presence you feel before you even know it’s there.

    It slips beneath the skin,

    quiet as breath,

    cold as a truth you’ve been avoiding.

    It doesn’t shout.

    It doesn’t rush.

    It settles —

    patient, deliberate —

    like it’s claiming territory it always believed was its own.

    It blurs the edges of everything you thought you understood,

    turning familiar rooms into hollow shapes,

    turning your own thoughts into echoes

    you can’t quite trace back to their source.

    It’s the weight that bends your spine

    even when you’re standing still,

    the chill that lingers in your chest

    long after you try to shake it out.

    It doesn’t threaten.

    It doesn’t need to.

    Its power is in the quiet —

    in the way it convinces you

    that nothing outside it is real,

    that the world beyond its reach

    is fading,

    unreliable,

    distant.

    And you believe it,

    because you’ve been here before.

    Because its voice sounds

    dangerously similar

    to your own.

  • I’ve been waiting all night

    Not pacing.

    Not counting the hours.

    Just staying awake

    in that quiet way

    where hope doesn’t make noise.

    Waiting like you wait for a light to turn on

    in a room you know by heart.

    Waiting because some part of me believed

    you’d come back to this moment,

    to this breath,

    to me saying it out loud.

    I’ve been waiting all night—

    not because I had nothing else,

    but because this mattered.

  • The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

    The devil wears a suit and tie—

    pressed clean,

    smiling easy,

    knows exactly how to sound reasonable.

    He doesn’t knock things over.

    He rearranges them.

    Calls temptation opportunity,

    calls control love,

    calls silence peace

    while he’s draining the room of air.

    He shakes hands,

    looks you in the eye,

    tells you everything you want to hear

    right before he takes

    everything you didn’t know

    you were giving away.

    The devil doesn’t scream.

    He persuades.

    He waits until you’re tired,

    until you’re lonely enough

    to mistake charm for safety

    and confidence for truth.

    He wears a suit and tie

    because evil learned

    it doesn’t need horns

    when it has credibility.

    It doesn’t need fire

    when it has patience.

    And by the time you notice the cost,

    you’re already wondering

    how you ever thought

    he was on your side.

  • Oh, Misunderstood 

    The common things—

    oh, how misunderstood.

    Quiet kindness mistaken for smallness,

    routine for emptiness,

    stability for lack of fire.

    We overlook the ordinary

    until it’s gone—

    the steady hand,

    the familiar voice,

    the moments that didn’t ask to be noticed

    but held everything together anyway.

    It’s always the simple things

    that carry the most weight,

    and somehow

    the least applause.

  • Christmas isn’t what it was as a kid.

    Christmas isn’t what it was as a kid.

    Back when the house felt fuller,

    when laughter filled every corner

    and love arrived wrapped in noise and warmth.

    I miss being surrounded by my family,

    the way the room buzzed with togetherness,

    the way happiness felt simple

    measured in torn wrapping paper

    and everything crossed off my list.

    Back then,

    nothing felt missing.

    Everyone was right there.

    Alive.

    Loud.

    Certain.

    Now we’re scattered

    across cities, years,

    and places we can’t drive to anymore.

    There aren’t many of us left,

    and the quiet settles heavier

    than the stale December air.

    The lights still glow,

    the songs still play,

    but they echo differently now.

    Like they’re trying to remember us

    the way we were.

    Christmas didn’t lose its magic

    it just grew older,

    like we did.

    Carrying more memory than moment,

    more longing than surprise.

    And still,

    when I close my eyes,

    I can hear them

    feel that warmth again,

    if only for a breath.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.

  • Can’t Save Myself From 5AM

    Can’t save myself from 5am—

    that thin, trembling hour

    when the night is almost gone

    but refuses to let go,

    and I’m caught between yesterday’s ghosts

    and tomorrow’s promises

    I don’t know how to keep.

    There’s something cruel

    about the quiet at that hour,

    how it magnifies every bruise

    I thought I’d healed,

    how it pulls old memories

    back into my hands

    like I’m meant to cradle them

    instead of bury them.

    I lie there, staring at the ceiling,

    watching the darkness pulse

    in slow, aching waves,

    feeling the weight of every thought

    I pretended didn’t hurt.

    It’s the kind of loneliness

    that doesn’t shout—

    it whispers,

    it lingers,

    it crawls under my skin

    and makes a home there.

    5am is where the truth comes out—

    the truth I hide in daylight,

    the truth I swallow before speaking.

    It’s where the what-ifs return,

    where the could’ve-beens settle

    in the corners of my chest,

    where the world feels too wide

    for someone who feels

    so unbearably small.

    I try to breathe through it,

    try to remind myself

    that morning always comes,

    that light always finds a way in—

    but some nights,

    the dark wraps around me

    like it knows my name,

    like it’s claiming something

    I’m too tired to fight for.

    Everyone else is dreaming,

    and I’m wide awake,

    trying to stitch myself together

    before the sun finds me

    broken again.

  • Life Is a Drop in the Ocean

    Life is a drop in the ocean—

    small, trembling,

    lost before it ever knows

    it was falling.

    We spend our days

    trying to matter,

    trying to make ripples

    in a world that swallows sound

    and swallows sorrow

    with the same quiet indifference.

    A single drop

    against a limitless tide—

    that’s what we are.

    Fleeting.

    Fragile.

    Here and then gone,

    folded into something

    too big to understand.

    But maybe

    that’s the strange beauty of it—

    how one drop still shimmers

    before it sinks,

    how it reflects a whole sky

    in the moment before release,

    how it becomes part

    of something vaster

    than it could ever imagine.

    Maybe life is small,

    maybe it’s brief,

    but it’s not meaningless.

    Even a drop

    changes the ocean

    in some quiet,

    unseen way.

    And maybe

    that’s enough.

  • The Weight of the Wrong Place

    The universe will never give you peace

    in something you were never meant to settle in.

    It’s why the wrong places feel heavy,

    why the wrong people feel loud,

    why your chest tightens

    every time you try to force yourself

    into a life that doesn’t fit.

    Discomfort is direction.

    Restlessness is truth.

    That ache you feel?

    It’s your soul refusing to shrink

    just to make a moment feel easier.

    You weren’t created for a half-life,

    for almost-right,

    for good enough.

    The universe isn’t punishing you —

    it’s pulling you out.

    It’s nudging you forward.

    It’s reminding you that peace

    isn’t found in settling,

    it’s found in becoming.

  • These Words Are All I Have

    Photo Credit-Bas Glaap

    These words are all I have—

    the only way I know

    to bleed without breaking,

    to speak without shattering

    the pieces I’m still holding together.

    I can’t hand you my heart

    without it trembling,

    can’t show you my scars

    without feeling them reopen,

    so I write instead—

    hoping you hear the truth

    hiding between the lines.

    These words are all I have

    when my voice won’t steady,

    when the ache in my chest

    is louder than anything I could say.

    So I offer them softly,

    quiet as a confession,

    fragile as a prayer—

    hoping you’ll read them

    and understand

    that everything I feel

    is here on the page,

    because it’s the only place

    I’m not afraid

    to let it live.