March 2025
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Aloofness her shield,Warding off rejection’s bite,Numbing heart and soul—She shunned warm embraces’ glow,Left cold in solitude’s grasp.
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“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”— William Ernest Henley, from “Invictus” (1875) Bathsheba, Veiled in MistI watch, unblinking,through the shadowed pane—I’m a silhouette cloaked in intent,my gaze a thread you can’t hold.Your form falters under my stare,cloth clings too tight,a confession I don’t need to hear.I feel
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Who was your most influential teacher? Why? For me, it’s a handful. Ms. Hendin, my third-grade homeroom teacher—she was the first to call me smart in a way that stuck, and I believed her. That shifted everything. My parents, who drilled humility and hard work into me, roots I still lean on. Coach T., who
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Morning crashed in like a drunk stumbling through my door—too damn soon. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking sleep, hoping the dark would swallow me back. Didn’t work. My head flickered with the big shit—the kind that jolts you awake at 3 a.m., all jagged edges and no mercy. I told myself it was just
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“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”— Lao Tzu I left behind boyhood’s warm embrace,To chase manhood’s fleeting, hurried pace,Thinking joy was locked in that new space,But found instead an empty, hollow place. Then spent my years in restless, vain pursuit,To find the boy, to lost joy impute,Believing he could make my heart refute,But
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If you were to choose a tattoo for yourself, what would it be, and where would you place it? For me, I’ve already found meaning in the two tattoos gracing my fingers. One is a King of Hearts, with a crucifix at its center—a symbol of Christ’s sovereignty and sacrifice. The other simply reads “surrender.”
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Squeezing my entire sparkling personality into one measly word is like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole—tricky business, to say the least. As I flip through the Rolodex of my mind, I zip past the sunshine-and-rainbows clichés—compassionate, loving, kind—and think, “Sure, I’d love to be a saint, but I’m not exactly
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The day stretched long, yet held its grace,I toiled in fields, dirt beneath my nails a trace.My back groaned low, lifting burdens high,A job or two I sought beneath the sky. A younger me, with frustration rife,Spoke of bills, of girls, of a carless life.Gas too dear, the reason he was late,I heard his woe,
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“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”— Mahatma Gandhi Without a doubt, the best compliment I’ve ever gotten is when people gush about my kids—now adults—and sneak in a nod to their mom and me for how they’ve turned out. Good values, solid character, you name it.
BB Grey--musings 