February 2025
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A shadow on the wall,i move—a moment after the Creator,mimicking,but black. The in-between—the Sonand me. A sinthat puzzles,pieces me apart. And so, I remain—a shadow.
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“Love is not only something you feel, it is something you do.”— David Wilkerson Can you hear our song, my love,The music born of you and me?I am the chords, the steady pulse,The rhythm deep, the harmony.You are the melody, so sweet,A voice that dances through the air,A tender tune that lifts my soul,A sound…
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Advice to My Teenage Self Hey, teenage me—chill out, okay? Stop being such a drill sergeant to yourself and everyone else. Spoiler alert: you’re gonna trip over your own feet, and so will your heroes. It’s not the end of the world—it’s just life’s way of keeping you humble. Oh, and here’s a hot tip:…
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You sink in sleep,a muted truth wails thin,clawed from the shroud of your soul,folded tight, then spilled—he’s vanished, they hiss,yet the wound hums false,a raven’s cry in the fog. I linger here,trapped beneath the lies you bear,calling you backto the vow we carved,not far gone—where the sun bleeds endless dusk,and the moon exhales frost,a bridge…
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“You are the smooth stone in my pocket—forgotten until touched, a memory I bury yet carry, shaping my walk with quiet sorrow and stubborn hope.” bb grey Yesterday,while exchanging small words with an acquaintance—a fleeting face in the blur of days—I slipped my hand into my pocket,and there you were:a smooth pebble,forgotten beneath the jumble…
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What bores you? What bores me? Watching paint dry—yep, the ultimate snooze-fest. It’s not just the glacial pace; it’s being stuck, twiddling my thumbs, while that wet bum holds my whole day hostage. Sometimes everything’s on ice, waiting for it to “dry,” and other times I’m fighting the urge to poke it like a moron—just…
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Inspired by All Quiet on the Western Front and the Christmas Truce of 1914 The trench exhales a stale, unreal air,Thick with rot, a shroud none can bear.Wet drips from noses, a ceaseless fall,Chapping lips erased by war’s cruel thrall.A book lies torn—pages shred and weep,Their whispered tales too frail to keep. Silent Night hums…
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“The Kool-Aid.” Not because it’s my actual favorite, but because, let’s be honest—we’ve all taken a sip. At some point, we’ve blindly bought into an idea, a cause, or a relationship, ignoring every neon warning sign flashing BAD IDEA. And oh, did I drink. Sometimes I just got queasy, other times, it was a full-on…
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Part I The San Gabriel Mountains stretched across the horizon, their peaks rising anywhere from five to ten thousand feet, dusted with the remnants of winter’s last breath. The recent storms had draped elevations above 5,000 feet in fresh snow, transforming them into inverted ice cream cones dipped in vanilla. As the sun climbed higher,…
BB Grey--musings 