Just Beneath The Skin

January 5, 2017

From out of the storm walked the souls, clinging to the masks sewn on at birth and learning their roles.406522_322086917812430_414015272_n

Drenched in tears from the Earth Mother, in their arms treasures wrapped in rags like no other.

Grouping not together but alone or in mismatched pairs, waiting for the roadside snake oil men to sell their wares.

Feet shuffled along on the road of mud that was once dust, heads down low from the rain lest their hearts rust.

The salesman waited with black smiles of glee, ‘We will trap them here, they will never be free.’

When the many souls asked the price of the poisoned vision in the salesmen’s bags, they lifted dirty crooked fingers and pointed at the treasures wrapped in the rags.

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Exulansis

January 5, 2017

cropped-404193_353356824685439_994789052_n.jpgWhat can I say now, sitting on my words that are not quite masking?

Where can I go with these, when every turn makes me feel like never asking?

I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t want pity, I just want to feel like a man and not be alone in this internal dead end city.

 

Finding it hard to speak, without giving the sorrow away…

Jabs from your joy tweak, and I never really meant to say…

How bad it is here now, no life here on this barren rock…

I will fight through somehow, but I did lose it all with this madness on the clock?

-Thomas Spychalski


This, That or the Other

January 3, 2017

tree-and-sunWhat hurts more…then the times I made you hate you hate me, are the times I really made you care.

What burns out, in the twilight…are not the moments of rejection but the times you wanted me there.

Anyway, who can say? It’s all just a play, and one day we will all sell out.

 

So when I go…into new days, it’s not the fear of getting back, it’s the fear of another fall.

And so you know…as I find ways, it’s never the road behind I fear but rather the cracks ahead that make me stall.

Whatever now, who can ask? Don’t like the task of the push but I shoved first.

 

So to all when you take the time to ponder on me, whether it is of things lost and things you could see, is he a man or a mouse, I know you have your doubts.

Oh, how it all kills me to recall when I saw kindness at all, instead of the ticking clock to count down premature end…

So, when I get back on the horse, after the course and friendship divorce, I see how things they bend…

As a wish and a gift I wish I could, turn off the guilt and the hilt of the sword that I think cuts me out…

Complications, aggravations from what’s at hand, lines pushed back every time you make a stand and all the doubt…and just hear the beats you all tried to send.

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When The Voice Is Silent (A Offered Prayer)

January 2, 2017

man sees ghost out windTonight another like any other before or since, anger in confusion by the blood on my hands and the lack of the tightening bands there yesterday, now free to reflect, can’t redirect the past, the leaving is bliss but will it last?

The Silence.

Artless Defiance.

Broken protector alliance.

Begging please no future compliance.

In silence I can see that road, long and high it winds, I can see the scars in my the wake of the past and the way they blind. Escape route hidden by flames of ignorant internal injustice ritual, the whispers muted now, not habitual.

In the silence I can see the end of things I can fix everything, never asking for this but without I drown, who’s the real plaything here?

Grateful ghost town, shhh now, not a sound, block the countdown, no half-crowns, and no errant breakdowns.

And I beg…

Thomas Spychalski

 

 

 


Fiction: Of Light And Shadow | The Doctor Who Companion

December 31, 2016

A little bit of holiday Doctor Who fiction to start off the new year from TomSpy and the Doctor Who Companion.

All shares, comments, and likes welcome. 

http://thedoctorwhocompanion.com/2016/12/30/fiction-of-light-and-shadow/


Idiot Savant (Bury Me)

December 9, 2016

spiderI don’t want this if it serves me never, lost circle, never had one anyway, so the eclipse takes the control, let all ties be severed.

All the things I can see out in the void of Earth, but I don’t live among you anymore, never did before, from the age of now since birth.

Line up all your secrets and your fears, the little things no one gets, I get and love, but no one has gotten me for all those lonely years.

 

Bury my heart at the center of the dark, its home, never reach port to disembark.

Simple Simon only wanted simple wares, a piece of that life, no satisfaction to the dare.

Cuts and pricks from the thistle thorn, and the hidden damage they do when swallowed, they bleed and I’m torn in two.

The idiot in some ways, can’t see how everyone else plays, a savant in others, I could change the days, but I refuse, you all use, the parts of me you need, while for me needs are left open ended, no chance to ever feed, no pardon, never freed.

 

Take these eyes, if they never see eye to eye with another, I wish to blind myself to my insides, no longer have to suffer.

From dreams and loves never to reach fruition, things I can never be, so why can’t we place those things in cages, intoxicating remission.

Gone already anyway, no chance of a return, for there to be a winner, others have to lose, so can we just take these gifts, light matches, watch it all burn?

 

Bury my heart at the center of the dark, its home, never reach port to disembark.

Simple Simon only wanted simple wares, a piece of that life, no satisfaction to the dare.

Cuts and pricks from the thistle thorn, and the hidden damage they do when swallowed, they bleed and I’m torn in two.

The idiot in some ways, can’t see how everyone else plays, a savant in others, I could change the days, but I refuse, you all use, the parts of me you need, while for me needs are left open ended, no chance to ever feed, no pardon, never freed.

Never given the basics you throw in my face, never let in, for no original sin, cannot now begin, to join the race you never let me enter.

Thomas Spychalski

 

 


Self Composite Sketch

December 6, 2016

They took the eyes of a clear-headed man, he would see no bias and could also see with clarity how foolish every society around him was because they refused the greatest gift, the gift of themselves, which would later be a great source of irony.

Heart of tarnished gold, made that way by the smoke burnt down below, in some ways a treasure in the world as it is now and in others an overcompensating parody of what the heart does, dipping into contracted tyranny.

Mind ‘scattered’ with gifts to be sure, but this one had been rocked, this one had been rolled, words and notes can flow like a fastly moving stream, complex thoughts lead to a wondrous and misunderstood place where the greatest of man has arisen before, but yet the pain that has throbbed forever has never fully abated.

In the mind, there are gifts but also unwanted property, a million insults programmed in the pathways of daily creation, deadly mantras that in horror feel like breath, for even as the memories remain and time works its fading magic, the truest truth remains, it was never the world, but the mirror he truly hated.

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