Persisting Scramble

January 16, 2018

I guess you can not be like me, and lord knows I can never be like you,
Loneliness beyond virtual strikes cold, empty, so we do what we do.
Weld on the costume I have to carry, plastic smiles and context unknown,
For every step of growth, every forward advance, still on our own.

I can say I don’t care,
Empty home, seldom shown,
The scars from the tear,
Hollow silent halls, frustration falls,
Addicted to pain and sorrow,
Sugar and spice burned Christ,
What will you let me borrow?

Stonewalled by the scent and the old attitudes,
In the corner, forever the foreigner,
Heinlein’s stranger in much stranger platitudes,
Like lost Valentine, drenched in wine,
Milestones you sell me in busted media,
Rat hunger reaches pitch, click his switch,
So nice of you not to come, nice to not see ya.

I guess we are all just scrambling, searching, rambling,
For the world to ink us with its inept discount branding.
Tie me to those tracks or just forget the ticket let me climb aboard,
I know why in the end it is how it is, I will not whore like you’ve whored.
Thomas Spychalski

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Frozen Sirens

January 15, 2018

Frozen beneath the cold depths,
Where she took her final steps,
Statuesque like a chiseled piece of art,
Still, nothing kills her burning heart.

Reaching out silently forever,
To have a final touch, be together,
Currents move around her breast,
Can you hear her heart beat in her chest?

Siren’s call, and such a lonely song,
The body still, the soul so strong.
Seafloor holds her, but not her aching passion,
Forever of stone, body yearning, face ashen.

Tonight she rises from under our feet,
Take back the life stolen, circle complete.
And when the deed is finally done,
She will return, she and the waters are now one.
Thomas Spychalski


And I Ask Myself

January 13, 2018

Recent days after being lost in the haze,
Multiple points of love and praise.
Still, I ask myself,
What about those old ways?

Random thoughts I must silence,
Outward I shine, internal pestilence,
Still, I question,
The inner self-violence.

Am I who you all see?
Is this being truly free?
And I ask myself,
Wrapped in fate,
Is this where the narrative changes?
Or is already too late?

Late night owls cry out for prey,
Nightwalker, hide in light of day,
Still, I tempt myself,
With monsters held at bay.

New morning I said before,
Through the mirror, the core,
Still, I ask myself,
Is this reality or lore?

Am I truly who you see?
Losing my angels and muses,
Fight on, the mind refuses,
To ask me the question,
Underneath the fuses of design…who am I to deserve this?
Thomas Spychalski 


Wise Thought of the Day #12

January 12, 2018

“The best tool a creative writer can have is his five-year-old self in his head, the kid that imagined they were in space floating in zero gravity when jumping on the bed and had tea parties with his or her best imaginary friends.” – Thomas Spychalski 


Addressing Temperance

January 12, 2018

Sitting here thinking this had to happen to move,
Because now only to myself do I have something to prove.
Time makes the missing fade, but you always return,
Nights where clocks lost meaning, no art to digest and burn.

Future lies east, out on the new bright rising sun,
Bonds and secrets kept, every time I feel I would run.
You are no angel, I am no devil, but gods we can be,
Shame always after the door closes tight, then I see.

So now I call to Temperance, damn the exit, not the entrance.
The pain of this severance, a world of normal, without reference.
Guilty not of the love and rare connection, but loving too much.
Without, no semblance, no shared sense of any deference,
People are too plain for my tastes, now just have guilty but proud acceptance,
Under the sights of this sometimes boldly obstreperous remembrance.

Moving forward and finding peace does not always feel so grand,
When you can see the broken pieces behind where you now stand.
Duality of guilty programming in both of us, from years of  clandestine horrors,
Even the saviors of the sheep from the wolves find there are no restorers.

Masochism built in me from years of silence from those meant to protect and love,
Failed to defend when it mattered most, seeing spikes in every soft touching glove.
Apologies wore out, better off you say, you never would have if I was the right way,
From the start, the sex in the art, we shared without competition, now gone away.

So now I call to Temperance, damn the exit, not the entrance.
The pain of this severance, a world of normal, without reference.
Guilty not of the love and rare connection, but loving too much.
Without, no semblance, no shared sense of any deference,
People are too plain for my tastes, now just have guilty but proud acceptance,
Under the sights of this sometimes boldly obstreperous remembrance.
Thomas Spychalski


Wise Thought of the Day # 11

January 11, 2018

“If one feels privileged to stand in the light of the master, one should realize he is a student on his way to BECOMING a master.” –Thomas Spychalski


Fire Wheel

January 11, 2018

Black and white, no room for grey,
There is hatred in every word you say.
Closed mind, unhealed hearts,
Only freeze the world, shattered ice,
The fire of ignorance has become your vice.

Listen up and listen well,
To these words, I spit.
Pay attention this is your intervention,
That makes the world of one split,
Turning heavens to hells.

False self-respect, something you inject,
Into every rant and raving desire,
No room to introspect, just reject,
Why keep fueling the wheel of fire?

Cannot you see your brothers and sisters,
The one you kill in your arms willingly,
Too proud, way too damn loud,
Keep that burning wheel turning, so chillingly.

Shut your fucking mouth if you don’t understand,
What it means to be a strong woman, a stand-up man.
Take your lumps this is life we learn from pain,
No lesson ever in labels and passing the blame.

One last section, my vision is clear as morning dew,
Before you ask someone else, what the fuck is wrong with you?
Hyper typing, media sheep biting, constantly blighting,
The things they never want us to see is true…
… we are the same, no shame, misplaced blame,
Push that broken wheel, it turns because of you.
Thomas Spychalski


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