January 2025
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“With every breath, with every silent prayer, I embrace this fall, this existential dare.” In the depths of a void, where shadows stretch long, I speak to you, God, with a heart heavy with song. An emptiness vast, where no light dares to gleam, A place I’ve known before, a recurring dream. Rock bottom, they
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Luna, I’ve been an idiot. Not your garden-variety, forgot-to-buy-milk idiot, but a premium-grade, head-stuck-firmly-up-my-own-behind kind of idiot. These past months, especially this week, I’ve been about as present as a ghost at a party – technically there, but not really making an impact. Our talk today hit me like a cold shower at 5 AM.
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Not every line’s a poem, Not every post spills secrets. Value’s in the try, not the hit. No fixed price, just the roll of the dice. Poems, secrets—same deal, The cost? Your courage to share. Economics stripped bare, Trading on old, worn coin. I crave your words, your presence, Now distant, like touching through
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“The stock market took back a little today, and the gambler in me shoved shares into quantum stock. Monday’s highlight: Trump’s swearing-in, MLK holiday, and football. But all this celebrating after every play? Junk.”
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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
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“I’m in love,” I declared, And dashed to reclaim the smile I’d hidden five years ago, out of sight. Through the debris, under boxes labeled “Mistakes,” Past the gadgets, the broken dreams, Each with their own hollow promise. Was I really so blind? After digging through the mess, I found it, That smile, slightly worn,
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I woke up with a jolt, as if an unseen hand had placed a profound secret on the lapel of my jacket. I had dreamt of an award ceremony, perhaps the Oscars, Grammys, or Golden Globes — the details were lost in the dream’s haze. There was one clear winner, someone whose journey had been
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The weekend ended abruptly, slammed into Monday. Regret, that old friend, crept in while I sipped on a warm beer from noon, watching the Packers fail against the Eagles. That beer sat in my gut like a bad choice. Sunday evenings, they’re a melancholy stretch. Not like those Disney nights from childhood, when the world
BB Grey--musings 