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You carried wounds you never asked for,shadows that were never yours to hold.Yet, when it was your turn,you chose to fight instead of fold. No one showed you how to heal,yet you learned,through trial, through error,through nights you thought you’d break.Still, you rose. The weight of silence pressed against your throat,but you spoke.The echoes of
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Do you dream, my love,in hues of wheat and gold,a harvest ripe and radiant,glowing beneath storm-blue skies—their vastness flecked with gray,a tempest’s tender prelude? I see you,rain-rose petals, nude and pink,scattered soft against the ivory silkof your skin—smooth as clay,unmarred, awaiting the artist’s hand.A canvas alive,you beckon my brush,strokes bold and delicate—oil pastels in saffron
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I tally my days,a quiet inventory—wins and lossesetched upon a fragile card.Today, a single Woutshines the L,and tomorrow dawns,a tender promise,small at times,yet woven with hope nonetheless. I sought You today,in the shadow of my helplessness,in the fleeting breath of praise.I called to Youwhen strength faltered,when weakness bowed me low,in humility’s soft cradle,in honor’s fleeting
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“He fell for her so hard he forgot where he parked his spine—last I checked, she’s still driving it around town.”— Ring Lardner Oh, man, haven’t we all been there? You meet someone, and suddenly you’re convinced they’re the whole damn universe—stars, planets, cat’s meow, the works. You hurl yourself into it head over heels,
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Another morning creeps in,rain flirting with cold,teasing snow,not to clean the messbut to blanket sin—a frail shroud over oil slicks,debris,black heartsstill slinking beneath,white or wet be damned. At least the tears—that noisy splatter on metal roofs—hush under the drift.You can fake it now,pretend the sobbing’s done,that clouds—those fat, fluffy angora tufts—spin gray to white,weaving a
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that love endures, even when you don’t tend to it as closely as you should The last thing I’ve learned—truly learned, in a way that settles into your bones and rearranges the way you see the world—came to me just last night, over a quiet dinner with my sister. It was one of those moments
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The Road Swallowed Most of Him Eighteen wheelsgrind even the best down—red-raw streakson black asphalt,a lonelinessthat claws for homewhen home’sjust a ghost in the rearview. Michael Smith,ordinary as rust,dreamed of morethan this rig could haul.Kept the dragoncaged between the lines,huffing, puffing,no spark left—his magic carpetragged, grounded,ride over. He whispered goodbye,couldn’t face another mile.An empty house,bills
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What’s the one question I hate being asked? The last one I just answered. Seriously—were you even listening? I just laid it all out, and here we are again, round two. As a business owner, I’m used to fielding questions—nonstop, all day, every day. The buck, the puck, the rubber duck, whatever you’re tossing my
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“The snow fell soft as memory, blanketing the world outside, while the fire within whispered her name—Jacklyn, the spark that never fades.” The last-minute bustle had swept through town like a fevered wind. Shelves at the local grocery stood barren, picked clean by hands clutching canned goods and bread. Firewood was hauled indoors in armloads,
“All colors made me happy even grey.” Nabokov, Pale Fire
A German carpenter by day working hard to follow a Jewish carpenter, exploring writing as a creative outlet. Passionate about learning through practice and observation.
BB Grey--musings 