poetry
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“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman I’ve Stood Soft I’ve stood soft against a hard rain,cold and wet clinging unrelentingto detached thoughts,iron-hot in vain. I’ve stared into a gray sun,choked on burnt exhaust,inhaled cigarettes with disgust—yet still, I breathe. I’ve turned away
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Unravel the ocean’s veiled skin,a spectral hush between me and earth,blue sinews clutching my limbs,whispering weightless lies— float, drift, pull—further, further—or drown. The tide chants hymns of urgency,promises carved in salt:“arrive, achieve, or vanish.” I claw towards the vanishing edge,where breath and bone dissolve,where the Fixx hums through vacant veins,a beach of endings waiting,waiting—for me
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She loved being chased. Not just for the thrill, but for the way it made her feel less alone. Like the world still turned for her, like someone, somewhere, believed she was worth the pursuit. She hated being caught. Hated the moment when the hands reached her waist, when desire became expectation, when the chase
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The moon spills silver across your skin,soft shadows tracing secrets I ache to unveil.You stir beneath my gaze, a breath—half a sigh,half an invitation I dare not refuse.Heat lingers between us, unsaid but understood,a silent language written in shivers and sighs. bb grey Let me linger, leisurely, with the weight of my stare,as you lie—naked,
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“We are all just echoes of something we can never fully hear.” bb grey You dangled your limbs—loosely, languidly, long—over the edge of a timeworn pier,where salt gnawed the timber to shades of grey and black,a stark contrast to the soft ivory of your skin. You traced slow circles,toe-tips dipping like the plucking of a
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“Let us die young or let us live foreverWe don’t have the power but we never say neverSitting in a sandpit, life is a short tripThe music’s for the sad men” Forever Young, Alphaville A response: Let us chase echoes where time has no tether, Fading like whispers or dancing forever. Fingers trace stories
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I write to visit the pain,to trace the joy I’ve known,when people stood at my side,their voices clear, their faces near. It’s easier to live in the echoesof what has been,to shape the past with words,than to step into the unknown—where joy and pain are strangers,and I am alone. The future whispers promises,but its
BB Grey--musings 