Through the Fog

Category: Uncategorized

  • 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.

  • Flint

    Photo Credit: Pete F

    Flint strikes out

    and pierce the dark—

    a single spark

    against a sky

    that’s forgotten how to shine.

    For a moment,

    light is a knife

    cutting through the quiet,

    a reminder

    that even the smallest fire

    can challenge the night.

    The dark leans in,

    hungry,

    certain it will swallow everything—

    but flint is stubborn,

    and sparks are born

    with rebellion in their bones.

    One strike,

    one flash,

    one heartbeat of brightness—

    enough to tell the shadows

    they don’t own this place,

    not tonight.

    Sometimes

    all it takes

    to change the whole sky

    is a spark brave enough

    to burn.

  • Dead Flowers

    Photo Credit: Earl Wilcox

    Dead Flowers

    They sit on the table,

    stems bowed like prayers

    that were never answered.

    The petals curl inward,

    holding their last breath,

    fragile and stubborn

    against forgetting.

    I should throw them away.

    But I don’t.

    I let them stay—

    a monument

    to what once was alive

    and too beautiful to last.

    You’d laugh if you saw them now,

    these ghosts in a vase,

    color drained,

    smelling faintly of endings.

    I keep them

    like I kept your words—

    even when they started to rot.

    There’s a strange kind of comfort

    in decay.

    It reminds me that love

    was here once,

    that something bloomed,

    even if it died

    quietly.

    And maybe that’s enough—

    to know it lived,

    to know it mattered,

    to sit with the proof

    in a vase of dead flowers.

  • I Wish You Were Here

    I wish you were here—

    not just in memory,

    not in dreams that vanish with the dawn,

    but here, breathing beside me.

    The nights are longer without you.

    The walls remember your laughter,

    but they don’t echo it right anymore.

    I keep reaching for a ghost

    that won’t reach back.

    Some days, I almost hear your voice,

    soft as wind against my skin,

    and I turn too quickly,

    forgetting—

    it’s just the world moving on without you.

    You should’ve seen the sunrise today.

    It broke through the clouds like hope

    pretending to be light.

    I stood there wishing

    you could’ve felt it too.

    I wish you were here—

    not because I need saving,

    but because some moments

    are too heavy to hold alone.

  • High Alert

    My body doesn’t trust the quiet.

    Even silence hums like danger.

    Every creak, every breath,

    feels like the start of something breaking.

    My heart sprints with no finish line,

    my hands forget how to rest.

    It’s not that I’m afraid of dying—

    I’m afraid of feeling this forever.

    The world moves in slow motion,

    but my thoughts race ahead,

    building fires where there’s only smoke,

    seeing ghosts in harmless shadows.

    I tell myself I’m safe,

    but my pulse calls me a liar.

    There’s no off switch,

    only exhaustion wearing my name.

    Still, I breathe—

    even if it’s shallow, even if it shakes.

    I remind myself:

    this is just my body trying to protect me,

    even when there’s nothing left to run from.