Through the Fog

Tag: Mental Health

  • The World Wouldn’t Stop Turning

    I didn’t move,

    but the world wouldn’t stop turning.

    Time kept its pace

    while I stood still inside myself,

    watching everything pass

    like I wasn’t part of it anymore.

    The sky seemed blue

    or maybe that was just my emotion

    projecting something softer

    onto a day that didn’t earn it.

    Funny how feelings can repaint reality

    and call it truth.

    I tried so hard to be cool about it,

    to play it off like nothing touched me,

    nursing a half-empty bottle

    or is it half full?

    I could never decide

    if I was losing something

    or still clinging to it.

    I drank for the pause,

    for the quiet between thoughts,

    for the moment where I didn’t have to name

    what was breaking underneath my calm.

    The world kept spinning.

    The sky kept pretending.

    And I sat there measuring my life

    in sips and seconds,

    wondering when stillness

    started feeling heavier

    than motion ever did.

  • 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.

  • I Was High Then

    I was high then—

    I couldn’t face things

    the way they stood in front of me,

    bare and demanding.

    I needed the blur,

    the soft edges,

    the lie that told me

    tomorrow could wait.

    Reality was too sharp,

    asking questions I didn’t have answers for,

    holding mirrors I didn’t want to look into.

    So I floated above it,

    called it coping,

    called it freedom,

    anything but fear.

    I wasn’t chasing joy—

    I was running from myself,

    from the weight of being present

    in a life that hurt to touch.

    Now I see it clearer:

    I wasn’t weak,

    just overwhelmed.

    I didn’t want to disappear—

    I just didn’t know

    how to stay.

  • What I’d Leave Behind

    I would paint the walls

    with every beautiful thing I am

    and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —

    layered thick,

    no clean lines,

    no apology for the mess.

    Joy smeared beside regret,

    love dripping into shame,

    gold pressed hard

    against the bruised colors

    no one likes to look at too long.

    I wouldn’t fix the edges.

    I wouldn’t soften the truth.

    There would be laughter

    caught mid-breath,

    and grief so old

    it’s learned how to sit quietly.

    There would be nights

    I survived out of spite,

    and mornings

    I stayed for no good reason at all.

    It wouldn’t be pretty.

    It would be mine.

    A room that says:

    this person felt deeply,

    broke often,

    kept going anyway.

    A testament to contradictions —

    light bleeding into dark,

    dark refusing to erase the light.

    If anyone stood there long enough,

    they’d see it wasn’t destruction

    I was trying to leave behind —

    it was proof.

    Proof that I was here.

    That I contained multitudes.

    That even the terrible things

    never managed

    to erase the beautiful ones.

  • No Place for the Weary

    Photo Credit-Leon-Pascal Jc

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose,

    the table cold,

    the night mean,

    and luck looking at me sideways

    like it knew exactly who I was.

    This ain’t no place

    for the weary kind —

    not for hearts that bruise easy,

    not for hands that shake

    when the stakes get high.

    Out here, pain is currency,

    and everyone’s broke

    before the first drink hits the glass.

    I’ve gambled with ghosts,

    traded my future for a flicker,

    dared the darkness

    to take its best shot.

    And every time,

    the world leans in close

    and whispers through its teeth,

    you sure you’re built for this?

    But I keep rolling,

    keep breathing through the smoke,

    keep standing in rooms

    that were never meant to soften for me.

    Because somewhere in the rubble

    of all I’ve survived,

    there’s a fire that won’t burn out,

    a stubbornness that refuses

    to bow to the night.

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose —

    and maybe that’s the trick of it:

    when the world wants you broken,

    staying on your feet

    is the boldest bet you’ll ever make.

  • Between What’s Said and Buried

    Photo credit-Thiébaud Faix

    Communication breaks me open

    in ways I don’t always survive.

    It drags the truth out of the corners

    I’ve kept in shadow,

    forces me to name the things

    I swore I’d never admit aloud.

    I’ve spent years learning

    how to make my silence look graceful—

    how to swallow storms,

    how to smile with a mouth full of grief,

    how to carry secrets

    without letting the weight show.

    But silence is a grave,

    and I’ve buried too many versions of myself

    trying to keep the peace.

    Trying to keep people.

    Trying to keep from falling apart

    in front of the wrong eyes.

    So when you ask me what’s wrong,

    I hesitate.

    Not because I don’t want to tell you,

    but because I don’t know

    how to hand you the truth

    without bleeding in the process.

    Communication isn’t easy for people like me—

    people who learned to fear their own voice,

    who were taught that honesty

    was the fastest way to lose someone.

    People who mistake vulnerability

    for danger.

    But still—

    I try.

    I open my mouth even when it trembles.

    I let the words come out

    messy, fractured, imperfect,

    hoping you’ll stay long enough

    to understand the quiet parts too.

    Because even though communication

    breaks me open,

    I’m tired of sealing myself shut.

    I’m tired of burying what I feel

    and calling it strength.

    Maybe this is what growth looks like—

    letting my truth exist

    outside of my own head,

    even if my voice cracks on the way out.

    Maybe this is how I rise

    from all the graves I dug for myself.

  • Messed Up Kid

    I was just a messed-up kid

    trying to make sense of a life

    that never slowed down long enough

    for me to breathe.

    People saw the attitude,

    the anger,

    the way I shut down first

    so no one else could beat me to it.

    They didn’t see the trembling underneath—

    the part of me begging

    for someone to just stay.

    I learned early

    that love had sharp edges,

    and silence could bruise too.

    I carried secrets like stones in my pockets,

    heavy enough to drown me

    but somehow I kept walking.

    Every mistake I made

    felt like another reason to apologize

    for being alive.

    They called me trouble.

    They called me dramatic.

    They called me broken.

    But they never called me a kid

    who needed softness.

    Who needed someone to speak gently

    in a world that only knew how to shout.

    I grew up thinking chaos was normal,

    that pain was proof of living,

    that I had to earn every small piece of kindness

    by bleeding first.

    I didn’t know

    that survival doesn’t mean you’re unlovable—

    just that you had to grow thorns

    before you ever learned how to bloom.

    And yeah, maybe I was a messed-up kid.

    But I was also brave.

    I carried things I never asked for,

    held up a sky that wasn’t mine,

    and still managed to find a way

    to keep going.

    Now I look back at that version of me—

    the scared one,

    the angry one,

    the quiet one hiding behind wildfire eyes—

    and I want to tell them

    they weren’t ruined.

    They were shaped.

    Forged.

    Built out of battles

    they were never meant to fight alone.

    Maybe I was a messed-up kid,

    but I’m not that kid anymore.

    And if I am—

    if parts of them still live in me—

    I hold them gently now.

    I let them rest.

    I let them be more than their wounds.

    Because the truth is,

    I didn’t grow up wrong.

    I grew up surviving.

    And surviving

    is its own kind of strength.

  • When it Rains

    There’s got to be a break in the monotony—

    but Jesus, when it rains,

    how it pours.

    One bad day becomes three,

    and suddenly the whole week feels

    like a storm I never learned to stand in.

    I keep waiting for the clouds to part,

    for the world to give me

    just one soft moment,

    one breath that doesn’t feel borrowed.

    But life keeps dropping weight on me

    like it thinks I can’t be broken,

    like I haven’t cracked a hundred times already.

    Still, somewhere underneath the thunder,

    I hold on—

    not because I’m strong,

    but because the storm can’t last forever,

    even when it feels like it will.

    There’s got to be a break in the monotony,

    and maybe the pouring rain

    is just the sky making room

    for something better to grow.

  • Wave of Sorrow

    It hits out of nowhere —

    that wave of sorrow.

    One minute I’m fine,

    the next I’m drowning in feelings

    I didn’t ask for.

    I don’t even know what triggers it.

    A memory.

    A song.

    A thought I didn’t catch in time.

    Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

    All I know is that it comes fast,

    cold and heavy,

    like the ocean pulling me under

    before I can take a breath.

    And I hate that I can’t control it.

    I hate that something so old,

    or so small,

    or so invisible

    can still crash over me

    and leave me standing there soaked in sadness

    for reasons I can’t explain.

    But the wave always passes.

    It always does.

    Even if it leaves me tired,

    or quiet,

    or a little more worn down than before.

    And when it does,

    I remind myself

    that surviving the tide

    still counts as strength.

  • My Thoughts

    People ask me all the time where my thoughts come from,

    like there’s some peaceful corner of my mind

    where everything sits neatly in place.

    I usually just laugh a little,

    because if they really knew,

    they’d probably never ask again.

    My thoughts don’t come from pretty places.

    They show up from the things I tried to bury,

    the memories I hoped would stay quiet.

    Half the time it feels like I’m digging up old ghosts

    that refuse to stay dead.

    People think inspiration is soft and beautiful.

    Mine isn’t.

    Mine comes from nights I couldn’t hold myself together,

    from moments that broke me in ways I still don’t talk about,

    from the weight I carry even when I swear I’m fine.

    So when someone says,

    “Where does your writing come from?”

    I smile, because the real answer would make them uncomfortable.

    It comes from the parts of me I don’t show.

    The fears I wake up with.

    The wounds that still ache.

    The stories I survived but never really got over.

    And honestly, I don’t write because it’s poetic

    or because it makes me look deep.

    I write because if I don’t get this stuff out of my head,

    it just sits there and eats at me.

    So yeah, people ask.

    But the truth is simple:

    My thoughts come from the places I wish they didn’t.

    And most people really, truly don’t want to know.