writing
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A dreamscape of loss and longing, where time unravels and echoes of the past linger— life’s relentless grind swallows dreams, yet the poet weaves meaning from the void.
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The scratching of his pen filled the room, frantic, almost desperate. Ink bled into paper, curling into letters that barely kept up with his thoughts. The desk lamp buzzed faintly, casting a cone of light that barely held back the dusk seeping in through the window. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside him,
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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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“Ballin’ on a Countdown: The Fine Art of Going Broke Strategically” Another version of this game is called Die Broke—same strategy, different branding. The idea is simple: when you die, you should have nothing left. Makes sense, right? You can’t take it with you, so why not spend it all while you’re here? The trick,
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“Be real,” she said,her voice smooth, practiced,like someone asking for the truthonly to fold it neatly away. Love was a currency to her,spent in small, measured doses,never more than necessary,never without expectation of return. Silence settled between us,thick, heavy—the taste of stale bread on my tongue,the ocean stretching out before me,salt licking the edges of
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“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin When I Die Bury me beneath the hush of pine,where resin weeps in golden threadsand roots murmur secrets to the soil. Mark me not with chiseled stone,no name, no weight of letters—let the
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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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“I wasn’t heartbroken, just lonely in that special way where your friends exist like emergency plastic car keys—useful in theory, but likely to snap off in the lock when you actually need them.” 3:30 AM Came Fast 3:30 came fast this morning, and the Writing Gods demanded my attendance. I rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed,
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**Phantom girl, adrift in air,woven light and whispered prayer.Mirror seas and silent chime,lost between the pulse of time. Veil of glass, a frozen blur,echoes hum but never stir.Stars dissolve, yet still they burn—step beyond, unmask, return.** a response to this song that i always found mysterious Lyrics Every day, every mightIn that all old familiar
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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
BB Grey--musings 