People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band" (which, incidentally, is Twenty One Pilots), to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!
I'd like to take this moment to thank my heroes, among them Twenty One Pilots! Stay alive, frens! |-/
When I found out the truth about you
you ceased to be flesh and blood
and  became something made of hollow glass,
brittle and fragile.
A vessel for lies and lust,  
  and clouded with cocaine dust.

The sharp exhale of my breath
knocked you off
my love-hewn pedestal.
You hit the ground hard, and
shattered in a thousand fragments.

I picked up a shard and cut my arm,
watched the warm blood drip.
It was something real.

I dipped a brush in the blood and
painted a picture of my broken heart.
I locked it in a drawer.
But I look at it now and then,
to remind me of the pain.
It will fade and crumble in time,
and become light enough to blow away
in fragments on a summer breeze.
I changed the ending from the original version
Lost on the rutted road to nowhere-
Bumper to bumper in traffic
That creeps along at a pace
Guaranteeing poor mileage
And overheated engines.

What difference does it make-
I don’t know where I’m going
Or care if I ever arrive.
There’s  nothing for me at the turnoff
But another unmarked  highway.

I had a road map once,
All marked with good directions
But I left it in a restroom
When I washed my hands
And saw a stranger in the glass

And listened to his tales of shortcuts
Promising to bring me home
To hearth fires burning
Warm with dinner in the oven
And two arms stretching out to me.

Silly, foolish, stupid me-
Hungering for meals not offered-
Rushing places I’m not wanted-
Giving things nobody takes
And getting empty boxes in return .
I wrote this years ago, but it feels appropriate today while I try to sort out my life as an unemployed person who must work to eat.
George Krokos Nov 2017
It takes some disillusionment and bodily distress
for anyone to abstain from bad habits of excess.
Some people are caught up very early in life and
so can't get beyond them without a helping hand.
From "The Quatrains" ongoing writings since the early '90's
The Dybbuk Apr 2017
I am sickly, weak and broken,
From all the words I leave unspoken.
I am plagued, hurt and deranged,
From the curses I leave unchanged.
I am full of expectations,
I have fully crafted plans.
I have names for operations,
I won't achieve with my own hands.
I walk through worlds and I'm displeased,
But it isn't these lands that are diseased.
get laid
get stoned
get smashed
get a headache
get a venereal disease
but did you get
Anything about this life yet?
This poem was composed at Denver's Chada Thai Restaurant
Candlelight is romantic, unless
you're in a dungeon.

Context changes everything.

Context makes you look down
at the bridges you build and realize
they are plywood: thin, cheap, but
soggy enough from this rain that
they're impossible to burn.

Realism is a myth. Everyone has a lens.

People believe what they want to believe,
or they believe the worst. Sometimes they
alternate, tense and relax at all the wrong
moments, a sigh of relief before the crime
has been committed.

Everyone loves a hero until they are up
against them.

The unforgivable becomes forgivable
in the right context, murder as self-
defense, or in war. Fear and arousal
provoke identical symptoms in the body.
Sometimes the boundaries bleed together.

Sometimes ethics surrender in the face
of love.
Peter Roads May 2017
We are all dead
or we are all alive
We live in the grey
but there is no dividing line
Brown or pink
Black or white
Shades and shadows dividing
by what you think they think
  about why you are
  when what you are
            is living
In dying for difference
            we are lost
In thinking too much
and in not living enough
egalitarian dreamer
Political Activism
There are certain things one can say,
And certain things one can't say.
The participants become disillusioned.....discouraged.
The Dictator is able to maintain control.
Ady Mar 2017
Love, she learns at a young, is her first disappointment. Her heart is bigger than her body and her logic smaller than her brain. She falls in love fast and easily with the world around her and doesn't understand how fast she can fall apart.
She grows to give and never take but forgets to set away some things for her. People, she realizes as she stand empty handed, are as greedy as they are needy.
And now that she's empty, that she has nothing left to offer, she tucks her heart away and is left forgotten.
Inspired from something as always.
Stories left incomplete of things you'll never finish.
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