January 2025
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“Life, it’s falling, stumbling, leaving marks…“ Life is a series of snippets—like 30-second commercials selling us narratives about ourselves, to ourselves, and to others. Saturday, Rainless. The day hung heavy with the promise of rain, yielding only sweat. I had been to Los Angeles, left a message, texted early, and answered your call with silence
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Part I: The END. If only you had wanted to read what I had written for us, I’m certain our story would have had a different ending. Part II: (Body) But here I am, still writing, each word a paper boat set adrift on a river that no longer leads to you. Pages pile like
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“Like dewdrops that sparkle in summer’s warm rays On gossamer wings of a midsummer’s day,I tickled sweet Life, and her laughter took flight,Like wind-scattered petals that dance and sway,My heart bloomed crimson in morning’s soft light. But fortune’s wheel turned, and she drifted away,Her eyes became storms on a wind-ravaged sea.Through winter I wandered, lost
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they fed me words like stale crackers through a chain-link fence while I pissed in the gutter and called it love messages at 2 a.m. “u up?” and I’d crawl through broken glass to read them like the dog I was cheap vodka and cheaper promises that’s all they gave while I sat
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“Each algorithm-curated morsel falling like manna from silicon skies, too perfectly sized to choke on, too sweet to resist.” Google knew the recipe for the feast I’d been searching for all my life, Each algorithm-curated morsel falling like manna from silicon skies, Too perfectly sized to choke on, too sweet to resist. Motionless save for
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“I raise the sheet, I seek the moon, for shadows, thoughts, or signs— a whispered ‘I love you’ soon, to make the darkness mine.” (A Song) [Verse 1] It’s Monday evening now, I’ve scoured corners, bare and bleak— beneath the table’s shadowed bow, where dust and silence speak. Inside cracked vases, hollow, still,
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The freight train steams, a beast of coal and fire, its breath a plume of white, a ghostly spire. It devours miles, relentless in its chase, through valleys deep and summits it can’t erase. Its hunger burns—a furnace, bright and white, consuming all that dares to cross its sight. In its wake, lives smolder,
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I’m obsessed with this keyboard. It’s not just a keyboard—it’s my sparring partner. Typing on it feels like a duel, like it’s daring me to keep up. Unlike those modern, low-profile abominations that feel like typing on a wet napkin, this thing has ‘attitude’. It’s not some passive, limp-wristed keypad. No, this keyboard punches back.
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By the ocean’s edge, where dunes rise high, A girl sits beneath the moonlit sky. She whispers vows to the glowing sphere, As waves crash blue, their song draws near. The salted breeze, with whispers low, Combs through her hair, still touched by glow. She pledges truth, her heart sincere, To the moon above,
BB Grey--musings 