April 6, 2019

I can look at you in beauty, but you only look at me in hate,
Now some will try and change it but I think it’s kinda late,
Some can call it bad luck, I can only call it by name as fate,
Tired of the misery, the empty times, and going without breaks.

I don’t wanna play a game that was rigged from the very start,
No one cares if like glass shatters so does your only heart,
Cold enough, I got it, was raised in ice and pulled apart,
No arrivals here, only lost baggage and timetables to depart.

Is there any proof to be any real reason to drop a dime,
When every picture frame shows the scene of a crime,
For you, it might seem foreign but I see it all the time,
Teasing, chaff glances and the barrage on my mind.

Here we go, I will have faith again obtuse and good enough to believe,
That a reality bathed in losses would ever give up quarter or reprieve,
I wish it did not assault me in sick bruises did not bring me to my knees,
But if the opposite is being felt all I ever get to feel like is the disease.

Press on, push up, still got some sacrifice meat left on these bones,
Imagination leaves me giddy, times awoke just leave me all alone,
If this is to be broken need the cavalry call, set a new static tone,
This could go either way still will it be the soothing northern lights or the familiar rough edges of the stone?
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 

When I See You Dancing

November 8, 2017

Random bit of inspiration from today’s WordPress Daily  writing Prompt ‘dancing:’ 
There are times I know, I know, that you don’t feel like the stage,
Wherever and however we get by to stay on the same damn page. 

Masks we wear and twists we share, don’t always cut through the gloom,

So we cut ourselves out, all the fears and doubts, lock them up in our private tombs. 
But when I see you dancing, lost in the moment,

Yeah this trip is hard but when you’re up there you seem to own it. 

I know you can’t dance on the floor all of the days,

 I see it there when you’re moving, like poetry and it teaches me this is how we pray.

Always a joy when you are dancing,

Because the rest of this world is cold enough, we all need something pure and entrancing.

So whenever I see you feeling bad,

The pieces around you seem so sad,

And the world is just driving you mad,

I’ll remind you just keep on dancing,

Through the dark just keep on dancing,

Light it up and make the world enchanting,

Just keep on dancing.

-Thomas Spychalski

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