Lonely in a Four Wall

May 23, 2018

Same as it was long ago, lonely in a four walled cell, how’s the weather here, you don’t wanna know, in here it rains hell.

Days go by, weeks pass on, months filter through, I once had hope, now all gone, this is the one heart never due.

Not sure how long this house of cards stands, don’t want to have redemption, just life in my own hands, but life denies me each day of dreams and plans of my invention.

Never wanted to rot away in silence, but light has been defiant, never wanted the inner violence, but now all the suns shine behind it.

Tomorrow is the same as yesterday, today is the same as back then, I guess this is the price double paid, for being given this poison pen.

Mother help me to understand, why it is always so cold, I never wanted more than to be a normal man, instead here I sit, wasted, old.

Such simple things you take for granted, and even plain abuse, I feel you must have been enchanted, someone gave you clues.

I know I’m not the only one, riding alone forever, but each wasted hour leaves another to be done, hard to keep it together.

So as my final words blurred by tears, are put on this page, I don’t think anyone ever heard, the pain behind this rage.

-Thomas Spychalski


The Gunslinger

May 21, 2018

Out here from where I observe you, as you make those saloon doors swing,
Pay my silence no mind, pretend I’m blind, need to know if your bullets sting.
The high noon beckoning, hyper-aware reckoning and coiling up like a broken spring.

Draw your words as your iron, paint your pictures as your hidden identity,
I’ll see it in your face if I bother to look at all, demons or angels of serenity.
Who fires first never matters because it will always be you no matter the context,
Gotta see if you shoot straight, aim true, turn the simple draw so damn complex.

Later we can share a shot of whiskey so strong and bitter always is that taste,
I may even heal those wounds, spit your poison into the spitoon in wasted haste.
And when it’s time for bed you can claim me dead, leave me outside town a waste.

Ride outta town spurring the dead horse, onwards to the next town like so many times before,
This one cannot find a home to call his own, no love and a past no one and nothing can ever restore.
Sleeping under the black canopy of the night again wondering if we should finally lay down those guns,
No pondering if our hat is black or white, the sheriff stays and protects his town, the outlaw only runs.
Thomas Spychalski 


May 12, 2018

Tell me why she has to have that sacred energy, draws me like a moth around a candle,
Remind me inside of why this has just caused scarring, my weighted heart too much to handle.

Yeah, and I guess you could be a muse,
(why is it always the hardest ones)
The graveyard is full though of bodies defused.
Oh, you could make me alive,
(why is it always the forbidden ones)
No more dual wielding pain, still confused.

Used to be so good at being blind, cause once I fumbled and stumbled they run,
Now I long for the open fields of feeling, the intoxication of those that can stun.

Yeah, and I guess you could be a muse,
(why is it always the hardest ones)
The graveyard is full though of bodies defused.
Oh, you could make me alive,
(why is it always the forbidden ones)
No more dual wielding pain, still confused.

If nothing moves then nothing can hurt and I can hurt nothing,
Don’t want to enchant anyone just to see them fade…
If I stand quiet enough, then you’ll never hate me for the wasted potential,
While the blast feels good as it gets, stopping the ball before the end of the masquerade…

Thomas Spychalski 

I Don’t Understand

May 6, 2018

Last Summer I met a woman held in a male master’s cage, within two hours, got what she said no one else could make her see, to turn the page.
Funny how after the thanking was gone and over, from that not even friendship did spark, I gave you light, you left me in the dark…

I don’t understand the lack,
Even though I loved to save you.

Once was walking to work, man I barely knew started walking beside me, told me his pain, replied with something I cannot even remember, came back that said I changed his life, so why after his rescue was my heart dark, stabbed with strife…

I don’t understand.
Who the hell am I to guide anyway?

Two of the most beautiful people I have ever known, once showed me their Pandora’s Box alone, Would have died for them to live, be they, lovers or sisters, so why did I feel not so close, like I was held at bay, know I’m to blame but I saw long before I blew you both had already lowered by value internally, threw me away…

I don’t understand.
Even though I hate that it was all me.

Multiple accounts of random people saying that the light they found I did inspire, dared to lift their art higher, so why when I try to paint my pretty needed pictures do I feel like I am alone on a tightrope wire?

I don’t understand.
Even though I push my brush down firmly.

I don’t understand the imbalance inside, I don’t understand this unpaid pride, cannot fathom and so we choose to hide…because we choose to no longer attempt to heal only to have the echo be pain.

Thomas Spychalski

Waste Magnet

April 24, 2018


I may have been a bitter fiend, but behind that confessional screen, secrets were given that I too never wanted, swear I saw love there you later denied and never vaunted, once my sickness became clear.
Could not even get those basic handwritten letters, credits paid to lesser debtors, everywhere you all would go, sacred places I would never know, you make me feel horrible about my fear.

Meanwhile outside the din of voices, retconning my disaster era choices, the proverbial sticks, and zones, that in a speech to others, soil my bones, what will make those little mice cease?
So add those little lifelong gashes together, plus surviving my location’s severe weather, everyone says to seek delight, but every time I find a reason to fight, I just fold myself into another crease.

Seems this magnet only attracts eventual waste, so rather then more pain I will wear this face, hide wounded without a trace, radio silence in haste, hung jury and no damn case, yeah it is me who misplaced, but also me who has to live with what the others never said out loud and my own damn disgrace at wearing the mask.
Thomas Spychalski 


April 24, 2018

There are many words in my head but I dare not write them,
For this is another night we lay out fires for the feasting.
Running away when there is nowhere to hide from the blade,
Solo act on a tightrope, where once protective thoughts are increasing.

Lack of pride forbids me from speaking of how sharp the mind is,
Rather be free of it anyway, the world seen by the eyes is so sick.
Nothing redeems the news they blast me down with, fiction or non,
Slipping in visions of the blessed man, synapses are so fast, so damn slick.

Turning open doors into such securely locked jewel encrusted chests,
Returning the violence and lustful lie of ‘wanting’ back into the mixture.
Stonewalled by blackened deals of ancient times we cannot forgive or forget,
These are no longer just our guests we scream, now more a permanent fixture.

Knock me around for my downed status, choke a bit at sipping my sour old wine,
Brillant tactics breed failure when the soldiers have all gone home and retreated.
Air taken in is only available here, in the shallow places of the once bravest mind,
Can we pack away the tools of war and hatred for the enemies, is this completed?

Thomas Spychalski 

The Walk

April 20, 2018

First steps are kinda hard, Spring this time around is so cold,
I could write in, complain, I’m not that daring, not that bold.
Up ahead a dog runs unleashed in his little prison yard,
Guess she is content, if I free her, the fear will hit her hard.

Some little child waves from the big picture window,
Daddy is in the garage getting the machine ready to mow.
Mommy, you can see exhausted sneaking a smoke,
Behind the house they built, which one chokes?

Turn a corner, so easy to do when I’m on my two feet,
See the moonshine basking in the dusk, more complete.
From somewhere far away a bass and snare explode like bombs,
Musical dreams there arise or die, be they punk or Brahams.

Something sick arises in the center of my centers, the whole,
This oxygen is making me weak, fumes like burned dream coal.
Gotta head right on back, I’d head home but I don’t have one,
I’d cry tears, but unless I am imploded I don’t have none.

Start walking on the grass, to stay off the drug of man-made nonsense,
The vapidness in the air I smell like slightly rotted musky incense.
Heading the way I came, what a fucking righteous bloated irony,
Trapped by my own self-hate and sense of imprisonment of my own tyranny.

Around me, the night is born, as my body pushed on around the blocks,
Not measuring how many steps, can’t measure time with shattered clocks.
So let’s just lay around mentally naked in the suburban fields they call lawns,
I’ll walk around again I’m sure, once we capture and interrogate those inner pawns.
ThOmAs SpYcHaLsKi 

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