writing
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“You are the smooth stone in my pocket—forgotten until touched, a memory I bury yet carry, shaping my walk with quiet sorrow and stubborn hope.” bb grey Yesterday,while exchanging small words with an acquaintance—a fleeting face in the blur of days—I slipped my hand into my pocket,and there you were:a smooth pebble,forgotten beneath the jumble…
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Inspired by All Quiet on the Western Front and the Christmas Truce of 1914 The trench exhales a stale, unreal air,Thick with rot, a shroud none can bear.Wet drips from noses, a ceaseless fall,Chapping lips erased by war’s cruel thrall.A book lies torn—pages shred and weep,Their whispered tales too frail to keep. Silent Night hums…
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“The Kool-Aid.” Not because it’s my actual favorite, but because, let’s be honest—we’ve all taken a sip. At some point, we’ve blindly bought into an idea, a cause, or a relationship, ignoring every neon warning sign flashing BAD IDEA. And oh, did I drink. Sometimes I just got queasy, other times, it was a full-on…
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Part I The San Gabriel Mountains stretched across the horizon, their peaks rising anywhere from five to ten thousand feet, dusted with the remnants of winter’s last breath. The recent storms had draped elevations above 5,000 feet in fresh snow, transforming them into inverted ice cream cones dipped in vanilla. As the sun climbed higher,…
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One extreme to another,we move like shadows in a hall of mirrors,chasing reflections of what never was. I thought you loved me—but love is a language I misread,syllables slipping between regretand the point of diminishing returns. We all make mistakes,excuses have their uses,like slicing a cake into piecestoo small to taste. Shaking a hand, clenching…
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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…
BB Grey--musings 