creative writing
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“The best thing to hold onto in life is each other.” — Audrey Hepburn It was nice to hear your voice last night—the last voice I heard before the day folded itself away. Who would’ve thought that working on a Google spreadsheet could feel like a moment of connection? But it did. You did. We
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“Trust, if it ever truly existed, hangs by a thread—a spiderweb filament stretched thin between two points: you and me. Once, we were tethered by chains forged in shipyards, strong and unyielding. Now, those chains have snapped, leaving us adrift, floating farther apart toward horizons we’ll never share.“ The rain falls softly outside, but
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“The lake still reflects and doubles anything at the water’s edge, making me feel I was there, and the double could shoulder and take all that is wrong with me and carry it away.” The Lake, the Screen, the Void It’s another day. The lake sits there, smug in its stillness, reflecting everything at the
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In this cell, my new pickle,Locked in like a riddle,God’s playin’ games, I’m in the middle,Brought a friend with a sickle. Prayin’ on my knees, beggin’ please,Countin’ sheep, no Zs, just disease,Woke up in this mess, no peace,Dreamt of freedom, but it’s all just tease. Warden’s screamin’, “Time’s up, son!”But I just sat down, just
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armor against the daggers of the world I have these beads, worn smooth, heavy with the weight of grief, prayer beads, perhaps, oiled by the endless rolling through sprocket teeth, like fingertips tracing the edges of a forgotten dream. They lie in wait, recoiled upon a black lacquered table, ready to take their place at
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“Life, it’s falling, stumbling, leaving marks…“ Life is a series of snippets—like 30-second commercials selling us narratives about ourselves, to ourselves, and to others. Saturday, Rainless. The day hung heavy with the promise of rain, yielding only sweat. I had been to Los Angeles, left a message, texted early, and answered your call with silence
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The freight train steams, a beast of coal and fire, its breath a plume of white, a ghostly spire. It devours miles, relentless in its chase, through valleys deep and summits it can’t erase. Its hunger burns—a furnace, bright and white, consuming all that dares to cross its sight. In its wake, lives smolder,
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I’m obsessed with this keyboard. It’s not just a keyboard—it’s my sparring partner. Typing on it feels like a duel, like it’s daring me to keep up. Unlike those modern, low-profile abominations that feel like typing on a wet napkin, this thing has ‘attitude’. It’s not some passive, limp-wristed keypad. No, this keyboard punches back.
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By the ocean’s edge, where dunes rise high, A girl sits beneath the moonlit sky. She whispers vows to the glowing sphere, As waves crash blue, their song draws near. The salted breeze, with whispers low, Combs through her hair, still touched by glow. She pledges truth, her heart sincere, To the moon above,
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I am a pillar of salt,frozen in place,looking back on a lifeI cannot retrace. Salt the ground beneath my feet,cast out for lack of taste,a barren void of withered seed,choked by ash and sinful waste. The heavens pour,mercy’s rain falls still—a gift for the righteousand sinners who will.Yet I dissolve, grain by grain,a quiet
BB Grey--musings 