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JP Goss 5d
Many men use November
As an excuse to grow out their facial hair
I used it to quit smoking.
Neither of the abovementioned
Examples came to fruition for me
Except an itchy neck
And some newfound attitude,
Strange dreams and lingering antisociality.
It’s the adulthood that
Comes with image
Something you can’t see when pondering the dismal
Grey sky like some kind of disembodied muse
And thinking ill of your fondness for it.
Such a pity is the happiness we derive from tragedy.
When prompted, you say your religion
Nihilism. Most people can’t tell
There’s a smile behind the self-effacing humor,
The sarcasm.
To see her riffing on her insecurities,
Is seeing pride shy away from
Its beautiful face
And you know she’s a mirror
Into a heart you abandoned to objectivity,
To brute facts of loss
And she’s the antagonist Zarathustra
Spoke so fondly of
A mirror nature speaks through
The voice you didn’t know you had, the breath that inspires
You see your own nihilism.
No songbird beneath the rose of Sharon
Ever refrained so sweetly.
JP Goss 5d
When one lives in the mountains,
Valleys are common
And the winding backroads that fill them,
My mind is frenzied by the tires’ pop and hiss
With a 10-strip of a russet colored pill
Transubstantiated by the visionaries
Foretelling the end of sensation
And peddled by the wellmeaning.
If my psychotherapist has brain cancer,
Who needs their head checked more?
Again and again, I see my fingers reaching out
Enticed by the chemical change.
The homily promises
Anatman, nirvana,
Immaterial whimsies
That briefly entertain your days as a doppelganger
Or harlequin dancer wreathed in
Clear strands of
Struck in dumb bliss.
The mountains always show the veneer,
Always their plan of bleakness
To follow the autumn beauty,
And to cycle back like the conceit of forever.
JP Goss 5d
…and quite becoming, disillusionment.
Old and young children are holding their legs
At the terminal of a new life,
Eyes having opened,
They were met by an infinite blue.
Deeply rich and sapphire-esque  in tone,
The sea rushed into the mouth that was held agape
By both marvel and fear.
At first instinct was the will to resist,
But then came the strange comfort of allowing the passionate Blood that once boiled
Chill itself to a painfully distant frost.
It was ecstasy and torture coexisting within
A circular harmony of sensation.

This order of solace was short lived.

With a shimmer,
The once reserved and vibrant sea of blue transformed
Into an abyss of clarity.
The briny and familiar taste shifted in nature to something other. Something potent, something repulsive, something sinister.
At once,
The calm oasis turned into a scathing hell.
His inferno incarnate.
A body that at past times swam with jubilance
Now sank to the fiery depths,
Having already lost both the spirit and the ability to fight.
The corpse felt an enormous pain.
But the mind felt none for there was none to speak of.
Chabadtzke Jun 18
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.
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