writing
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The moon spills silver across your skin,soft shadows tracing secrets I ache to unveil.You stir beneath my gaze, a breath—half a sigh,half an invitation I dare not refuse.Heat lingers between us, unsaid but understood,a silent language written in shivers and sighs. bb grey Let me linger, leisurely, with the weight of my stare,as you lie—naked,
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“A man may don many garments—some ill-fitting, some absurd—stitched from the words of others. But the cut of one’s true self cannot be tailored by another’s hand.” bb grey-hyde “Dr. J. E. Kyll and Mr. Feels: A Treatise on Overthinking and Emotional Minefields” The hour finds me in contemplation, my mind still burdened by the
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At my sweet age, my dad had already been playing chess with Jesus for over a year. When he wasn’t locked in celestial strategy, he was probably tinkering with something that needed fixing—a gate, a harp, or whatever heavenly tool required a bit of fine-tuning. Meanwhile, my mom? You’d find her on top of the
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“We are all just echoes of something we can never fully hear.” bb grey You dangled your limbs—loosely, languidly, long—over the edge of a timeworn pier,where salt gnawed the timber to shades of grey and black,a stark contrast to the soft ivory of your skin. You traced slow circles,toe-tips dipping like the plucking of a
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“I will die. Morning arrived in a muted gray, the silence heavy, almost suffocating. I stood at the edge of our life together, fingers twitching with the impulse to reach out, to fix something already shattered. She had left in the night, returned without explanation. Her absence was a wound; her presence, a reminder
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“Let us die young or let us live foreverWe don’t have the power but we never say neverSitting in a sandpit, life is a short tripThe music’s for the sad men” Forever Young, Alphaville A response: Let us chase echoes where time has no tether, Fading like whispers or dancing forever. Fingers trace stories
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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
BB Grey--musings 