creative writing
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“Love your neighbor as yourself”? Or treat others the way you would like to be treated. That assumes people actually love themselves—and let’s be real, a lot don’t. Maybe the real challenge is loving others better than we love ourselves, because some of us wouldn’t wish our own self-talk on our worst enemy. So yeah,
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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
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I’ve built some incredible homes as a general contractor, but one stands out—the “Disney Home.” The homeowner and designer told us to let our imaginations run wild. I built a treehouse bedroom with a 15-foot-wide trunk, rope bridges, and a ceiling that lit up with constellations. The craftsmanship was unforgettable, and the bonds formed
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“We are together, yet alone—bound by unseen threads, separated by silence.” bb grey We are all prisoners, though the bars shift shape.Some are gold, some are rust, some we never see at all.A crown is a heavy thing, even when invisible.Even when it is only a thought, pressing down. Serfdom—voluntary, reluctant, inevitable.We sign the contract
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I woke up two hours earlier than usual. If you think there’s nothing to do at 4 AM, try 2 AM. Scrolled through my phone, checked my bank accounts (still disappointing), peeked at the market’s so-called wisdom, and doom-scrolled my Google News feed. Apparently, at some point, I thought following everything Musk was a good
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If I got some fantastic news, my first instinct would be to drop to my knees, throw my hands in the air, and belt out a Hallelujah—all the while saying “Thank you, Jesus!” of course. Now, if I was driving when the news hit, that might get a little tricky (and potentially lead to me
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“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” — Rumi In fields of wheat spun gold at harvest’s crest,as storm-blue skies, speckled with grey,spill rain like rose petals—nude and pink—against ivory clay, smooth, untouched,waiting for the weight of oil and pastel,for the whisper of charcoal, for colors in between. A stroke of
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Martyred saint,Cupid’s arrow—Lost in flight,A vision narrow. Lover’s dream,Divorcée’s scheme,‘Til death we vowed,Then tore the seams. Better to love and lose, they say,Than never love at all—A hollow phrase,That left me small. I type and think of you,Wishing none of it were true.Yet time makes spaceFor history’s embrace. I smile at memoriesI still chase.
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I am an ugly piece of art. That’s what my phone screen blinked in the text box. Next to it, her portrait—the love of my life. Blonde-haired royalty, her head tipped back in laughter, the weight of her beauty too much for her to bear. Or maybe just too much for me. I had
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“If you’re going to give me something, make it a damn good bottle of whiskey and let’s not talk about it.” -Charles Bukowski It begins with an idea. The idea festers, grows. The perfect gift, the one that will make them see you differently, better, deeper. You research. You wander through stores, click through
BB Grey--musings 