Long Fogginess Poems
Long Fogginess Poems. Below are the most popular long Fogginess by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fogginess poems by poem length and keyword.
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavor, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound Interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back
.
.
Webster: Knackered = “very tired or exhausted.”
I love those who sit in my silence
Silence I seem to carry with me
It crowds around my shoulders and kneck
It stifles my words
I thought it would someday be filled
By promises to myself I can’t uphold
Living vicariously through
Those who march forward
Without choking on their words
I'll keep my eyes fixed on you
My mind catching every word
Like a hovering shadow
That you only turn to
So your words can fall freely
Without thought of the listener
Some days I feel my own weight
It bears down on me
Whispering sneers of disappointment
The fogginess in my head of unspoken words
It fades their meaning
Nights driving alone
Small snowflakes collecting on my windshield
Muffled echoes from the day
Are suddenly lifted and cleared
By the warm glow of the porchlight
That was left on for me
It lights my way to the door
Remembering small things I said
Bringing me back
From webs of lies in my head
You lay your jacket over my shoulders
I one day hope to give others
The care you’ve given me
So, it's been said that everything looks better in the morning light, but when sun's warm rays cannot break through the shrouded zenith what hope is there for life?
What can be observed in a world that's been shrouded in gray
when the nightscape bleeds its tears at the start of each new day?
The answer I cannot prudently offer, nor do I fear anyone can say
when it appears as if a malevolent force holds luminance at bay.
No amber sun rises in the East to greet dawn in the morn,
nor does a red sky serve seafarers as a means to forewarn
them of a danger lurking on the high sea may soon be born...
A nebulous horizon has taken a choke hold with winds of scorn.
Worldly warmheartedness has weekend and no longer exists
and everything is blanketed as if drenched in drizzling mists.
Irascible is mankind; legions are protesting with raised fists.
What's become of the brotherhood of man? It no longer subsists.
Will another starry, starry night ever again be visibly seen
or is Earth to be left forever without shades of forest green?
Void of reflected prismed sunsets in a world no longer serene
as though lost in a deep abyss, tossed into the mouth of a ravine.
And if another day cannot be distinguished from dark of night
will civilization be destroyed or left to dwell in consummate fright?
Will people be fearful of this ambiguous, amorphously baffling plight
if starlight's glimmering is absent, leaving Earth in a decaying blight?
Riding low across aubergine skies, gray clouds are being swept
as if bruised from sullen memories, the landscape has wept.
Over smoky plains and hazy valleys, a nebulous fogginess has crept
leaving life consumed by dankness, a catastrophic concept.
Ure my chemical imbalance tipping the scales
Ure the voice shouting leaving me pale
Ure the fright in the middle of a soulless night
Ure broken glass on the sidewalk
Ure cuts thru my shoes while u mock
Ure poetry in motion with nausea
Ure incurable when I wanna be done dotta
Ure an audio clip on a permanent loop
Ure the scandal rag with a crappy scoop
Ure rinse and repeat without a cleanse
Ure finite resources thru a single lens
Ure the reason for recurring work in progress
Ure my daily dose of fogginess
Ure the vacuum of perpetual thoughts
Ure the story who cannot be bought
Ure the constant double edge sword
Ure responsible for striking a chord
Ure the force I try so hard to counter with good
Ure responsible for me being misunderstood
Ure my nemesis and friend all the same
Ure the one enabling me to be creatively insane
No pills, no frills, just terrifying numbness followed by troubling relaxations
A pattern of chills trying not to succumb to this rollercoaster of varying sensations
Copyright © Christopher Delegans 2023
P e a c e is a language
spoken between
healing bougainvilleas
and bleeding begonias,
dripping dews of hope
through simple gestures~
like specks of sapphire dust
from stars sparkling
amidst bed-shaped clouds,
crawling through the horizon
many miles away,
stretching
beyond
the fogginess
that veils clarity,
stirring the
anchored odyssey
to sail through
twisted tides of turquoise,
facing the harshness of reality
like a mistress of
sky and sea~
u n b r e a k a b l e,
cloaked in opalescent shimmers…
Tonight, I feel the warmth of
inner light
rushing through
arteries swollen with angst,
for I am the dream
I’ve been chasing~
through the greyest of rays,
oblivious to the bluest blur
within violet haze,
lost in the coldness of
wicked waves
whistling woeful verses
to the sun that rests
in the arms of the marine nest.
Let me be the serenity
you inhale
when your heart
feels like a secluded vessel.
Let me be the solace
to midnight melancholy,
when darkness is
the comfort of a duvet
where
nightingales croon.
Let me float like
the softness of feathers
as I wish upon
unseen jewels of twilight,
for I will rise and soar
like a phoenix,
reborn in flames of fortitude,
allowing pain to be
the prompt
when ink suffocates in
a casket of
deceased dahlias
embalmed with
dulcet desires.....
I am the aura
of a waltzing wildflower,
rooted in the soul of your garden
blooming with graceful gladiolus
still soaked in the scent
of sun-kissed sands
homing everlasting evergreens...
and you
will f o r e v e r
be my 3 a.m. prose~
the peace I embrace in your absence,
when sleep is
a mere forgotten rhyme...
The black holes in my mind, never to be cleared
All light tried to shine, into a vacuum it disappears
Is the fate of my mind to have memories seared?
Does the emptiness hold nightmares my younger self feared?
Why is it that my memories fade before eighteen?
And fogginess and grey on top of shadows is what's seen?
What's caught in the moments is stuck in-between
The mysteries of my brain, an unknown machine
If I went back in time to my scared younger soul
And stepped in front of the monsters of old
Would I be able to protect her, from such burdened toll?
Or would my mind still be lost down that same endless hole?
Can the demons that tortured me ever be tamed?
Destroyed and forgotten, never to become named?
The thoughts in my head leave my heart inflamed
Such despicable beasts deserve to be left maimed
Trapped between the defined present and past
Is where my dying innocence is killed at last
Can the weight of trauma ever be surpassed?
Or are all of my fading efforts simply outclassed?
Perhaps one day I'll be made whole once more
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails,
Images stain upon the rainy glass,
With eyes clung tight, contours expressed exhales,
As specters of the past fade, sensed; surpass.
Sight seize the endless rain that hides the stars,
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails,
Mirroring on a son's undying scars,
Yield passions rest, how quiet dark prevails.
Image redeems trace, erred in feign regales,
Worn life that mislaid trails affects connect,
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails,
Tag tears on frozen face, as spilt reflect.
The metal frame swept stillness in the rain,
Felt emerald mist, kiss my mortal tales,
A shattered drive that held hope, now in pain,
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails.
Silvery light returns on rainy streets,
Mundane routine focused itself a phase;
What's not in front must be some sad retreats,
The dream held out hope for a filled star craze.
Rustling gale, possessed by a world undone,
Silvery light returns on rainy streets.
Hoped the unromanced tired race was e'er run,
'Ere the essence touched its nethermost, soft beats.
A conundrum begs fogginess, blurred: fleets,
Stubborn frays are remembrance, now erased;
Silvery light returns on rainy streets.
As the known sporadic peace is embraced.
Wanted in stares; a serpentine ruin,
Burdensome lifted in the gentle spritz,
A recessed wisp brushed a soft undoing,
Silvery light returns on rainy streets.
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away,
An apparition recalls who they were,
A moistened looking-glass pictured the gray,
Some formless touch that 'ere was quite a blur;
The scent of allure mingles with the mist:
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away;
A fractured remembrance recants their wrist,
Then sudden silence ends a rainy day;
Impulsive glint, a horrendous blue night,
An abandoned chair; spirits choose to flee;
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away,
Rare last thought that leaves one wanting to be.
The serene sleep, knowing it can't proclaim,
Final thoughts, whispers, or end to display,
In parting, I'll say his beloved name,
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away.
In the midst of the fog of life
we now find ourselves, we often
conclude that we came into this world
with nothing and will leave it likewise—
in doing so, we miss realizing that we
came into this world blessed with love.
Thus, often is the nature of our foggy being;
considering ourselves as valueless creatures—
irrespective of our ethnic foundation, gender—
born/chosen—or our chosen faith-based source
of spiritual wisdom and guidance in our lives.
No one is born valueless and unworthy
but with lack of positive self-concept, allow
and let themselves become perceived as such
in misguided foggy mind, body, and soul.
In the weather of life, fogginess is really just a blind mist;
and while we cannot control the weather of life, we can, via
forecast awareness, prepare ourselves for what to expect.
Often, in the stormy weather of life, we merely become unplugged
rather than having become the victim of an external power outage—
causing us to just sit around and wait for the repairs when all we really
needed to do was to just plug ourselves back in and be re-enlightened
by way of renewed self-awareness! Come now, let us get to plugging!
This can not be why I'm here
My future used to look so clear
With high hopes of happiness
Somehow these high hopes are less
Than I planned so long ago
Where did my bright future go
There is no more clarity
Fogginess is all I see
Trying hard to get it straight
All I ever do is wait
For a sign to come along
Right will take away the wrong
I'm this hill I'm now struggling
To climb over but it's tugging
Me back down with every step
Its difficult to find the pep
Inside myself, its slowly fading
Clouds are full and darkly shading
Any light I seem to find
I'm about to lose my mind
If this path I have to walk
Keeps stabbing me like a fork
Leaving little holes in me
Pouring out the misery
Playing like a sad sad tune
Praying happy music soon
Will engulf me with protection
And dance me in a new direction
I see nothing till I do,
I start as a feeling,
Building up in your throat,
Tracing the lines of the inner most parts of your soul.
My vision is always warped,
As though I were looking forward with a thin vale over my eyes,
Every shape is round,
Nothing sharp or ridged,
But instead all is obfuscated.
I lay dormant for days,
Weeks,
Months,
Maybe even years,
But I come back just as nimbly as I left.
I stay with one women,
She uses me more than I would like,
Everyday it feels as though I am abruptly taken ahold of,
Throttled and squeezed,
Then there is nothing left.
I feel her calling me again,
This time it is subtle,
More incubuses than before,
She must be hurt,
That is what I think,
She must be broken,
Bleeding out somewhere angrily dark,
She could be dying,
That must be why this time the hold on me is soft,
Almost reverent,
Like a lover’s touch.
So she must be dying,
For what other reason would she be this way?
When my vision does come it is unclear,
As it always is,
I find myself catching in the folds of the woman’s face,
At first I flow down her lashes,
Then I drip along the most intimate places of her face,
Sometimes I even manage to end up running along the dryness of her lips.
From what I can tell though,
This women is not dying,
She is just hurt,
In a different way,
Then I expected.
Through the cloudiness,
I see two of her,
They are inverted,
One of them,
Seems wrong.
More cruel,
Maybe a bit too honest,
So it is no surprise,
That she turns away from it,
To look at something more,
Ideal.
The ball in the sky,
Makes it harder for me,
To see her,
As well with the flicker,
Of flames.
But then the women,
She stops,
And I feel myself leaving,
I feel how I soak up,
How I dry out,
For the women,
Has none of me left.
But before I disappear,
The fogginess leaves,
Allowing me to see her,
For what she really is.
And with the shapes now,
All align,
I can see her,
She is just as I thought,
Yes,
She is indeed beautiful.