J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

Last Goodbye Days go by Wondering what the future holds I look up to the sky Rain falls down Clouding up my vision 'til the point that my eyes drown There's never any answers To the questions that I ask Still I wander, searching Seems a never ending task I know some days there's always going to be Reminders of the pain inside of me So I watch the rain falling from the sky This will have to be my last goodbye Time moves on Leaving me to wonder Just what the hell went wrong Lost in life Hoping for a miracle To finally end this strife It's finally going to happen I will find all that I need Hearts' wounds will always heal But not before they bleed I know some days there's always going to be Reminders of the pain inside of me So I watch the rain falling from the sky This will have to be my last goodbye This time I’ll break the hold on me This time my eyes will open up and see I won'

Somewhere in time With no reason or rhyme I find myself floating Wondering where I should be So many fears Often masked by the tears I find myself yearning Asking how I can see Then I find myself again Spinning 'round in circles Dancing like a fool In the afternoon sun Dancing like a fool My life has finally begun I try to hide the pain Though it's mostly in vain I find myself running Seeking something profound Sometimes in my life Overwhelmed by the strife I find myself screaming Begging just to be found Then I find myself again Spinning 'round in circles Dancing like a fool In the afternoon sun Dancing like a fool My life has finally begun So many memories So much distress and pain I need to leave in the past That's the key to finding A peace that will last Then I find myself again Spinning 'round in circles Dancing like a fool In the afternoon sun Dancing like a fool My lif

Yes, he'd been drinking. Yes, it was St. Patrick's Day. Still, he'd never been so drunk that his vision blurred the way it had that afternoon. All he could tell was that the flashing neon sign above the pub's door was red and that it had three words in it. Beyond that everything melded together. He had expected the phenomenon to continue when he went inside. Instead, his vision cleared with crystal clarity. Part of him wished it hadn't, because there was no believing what he saw. Bogart was the first one that caught his eye. He stood at the end of the bar in his trademark white tuxedo jacket, sipping scotch and smoking a cigarette. In fact, the bar seemed to be full of smoke though the tell-tale odor and staleness of air was conspicuously absent. At first he thought someone was pranking him, though the man's resemblance to Humphrey Bogart was uncanny. It became readily apparent, however, that this was no prank. A quick glance around the room nearly sent

There's a ringing in my ears And a blinding in my eyes A thousand angry voices Filling up my head with lies I try to run away But every time I turn There they are again And my mind begins to burn Until one day I find There's power from within Upon which I may draw To wipe away my sin The question that remains Is one timeless and contrite Not whether this is wrong But rather if it's right Reflection is distorted As I look back on the past And wonder if what's desired Is enough to break the fast Such is my eternal curse This activity in my brain I like to think a lesser man Would go at once insane Though perhaps insane I am Already my mind lost Frozen long ago By confusion's frost Though how frozen can it be Such a silly notion Perhaps it never stops Thoughts in constant motion Yes, that's more the case This never-ending thought All attempts at rest Are futile and for naught

The scene itself was nothing out of the ordinary: It was St. Patrick's Day, after all. The annual throng of revelers packed O'Malley's Irish Pub on 8 th Avenue, tenuously grasping at their tangential Irish heritages as a sad excuse to drink themselves into a stupor every March 17 th . It was the one week of the year that Finnick O'Malley helped his father tend bar. And he hated every minute of it. Frankly, there was little he loathed more than the swarm of tourists, donned in their "Kiss me I'm Irish" souvenir T-shirts and with their faces painted with tiny shamrocks, that descended on the pub every year. Though it was situated barely a brisk walk from Times Square, the pub's usual clientele consisted of Manhattan locals or professionals that had become "road trip regulars" while in the City for business. Things would return to normal in the following days, but until then it was all Finnick could do to keep the bile from rising in his t

So, I live in New York. (Where in Manhattan?) I said NEW YORK. Not New York CITY. New York is a big state, nitwit. (Oh. Right. HEY! What did you call me?) What? Nothing. Anyway, I live in western New York. If you have been following the news at all this winter you'll know that this area has been brutalized by one of the worst winters in a long time. We've endured sustained periods of frigid, sub-freezing temperatures and the heaviest snowfall I can remember since my childhood. Frankly, the worst part of it for me is the numbskull drivers that suddenly, annually, forget how to drive in the snow despite the fact they live here. And it snows every year. EVERY. YEAR. Seriously, people. Get your sh*t together. (Are you whining?) Yes, but only to illustrate a point. (Riiiiight.) Shut it, you. My gripe is with those that know better yet create unsafe and inconvenient conditions for no reason. That's legitimate. (Sure it is.) BE. QUIET. ANYW