Provisions

June 20, 2020

I should see by now,
But desperation rules,
All prizes for normal people,
Nothing for the broken.

I’ll sell it all right now again,
For a spoonful of that water,
Seeing no suns, rising denied,
I cannot see a reason to stay.

Tired of all the lies and misery,
Try hard, fall harder, defect alone,
A leper in man-sized funeral attire,
Buried under the weight of ‘nothing.’

Keep calling out, echoes only,
Fuck it but cannot be forced out,
I still will have to be bled, drought,
Ask me where I am, provide a hell.
Thomas Spychalski 


Alotted

June 11, 2020

Inner feeling of value,
Worthy state denied,
Underestimated,
Chews at my pride.

Little bit of bitter,
Fills up with the hole,
Rare paintings devalued,
Over me it rolls.

Do you remember it?
The rarity inside,
Why can’t I land?
Cursed ride, underhand.

Always on a sideline,
Hold it in, implosion,
Desire for top billing,
Confidence, erosion.

Wire where I’m waiting,
Balance you’ll be fine,
Tested and deemed true,
Lips denied it’s wine.

Do you value it?
The gifts imparted,
Unrapped but boxed up,
Drink deep please that cup.

Safety in ghost numbers,
Haunting my best show,
Tepid little slow burns,
Washed out by love’s snow.

Try to wait not trashy,
Deftly circle the runways,
Breathe but suffocate,
In ‘allotted’ times each day.

Can you now feel it?
Out, strong, beating proud,
Seeping love, truest true,
Sadness here, nothing new.
Thomas Spychalski 


Killing Floor

June 2, 2020

School is in session,
Let the lesson begin,
World is a glasshouse,
Ignorance is a sin.

Remind me of the fight,
Bells chime the rounds,
Call of the ethic true,
Blind eyes astound.

I look at the killing floor,
Everyone sheep lined to shear,
No one sees that open door,
Visions in glossy red veneer.

Want to scream again,
Balance never found,
Take the hit slowly,
On uneven ground.

Cast a spell of lies,
River clogged trail,
Clean the wounds,
Scars do prevail.

I look at the killing floor,
Everyone sheep lined to shear,
Strangling my inner core,
As they find not love but fear.
Thomas Spychalski


Calling

June 1, 2020

I called it but never have been proud of the knowledge which made me think another Rome falls in madness,
I saw it, but it doesn’t mean I will be a party to the unrelenting cycles of causing sadness.

Calling all to the fire, calling all stars, near or far, one more on the wire, peace was the only desire.

I called it and I wish I did not own this vision or any of my overthinking pictures in my head,
I tasted it before and I never wanted that chapter of that tired, old, outdated book to ever be read.

Calling you all out, calling all stars, kept in jars, my love, and my political doubts.

I called it but I never wanted this terror to come ever down the dirt road to the forked pass,
I heard it, but I don’t want it to exist, a world at each other’s throats, anarchy in mass.

Calling all colors and shapes friends, calling all stars, internal bars, can we have relateable zen, because I never want to see it again.


Regressions-Per-Minute

May 15, 2020

Give me a bit of karma returned,
For moments locked and burned,
Right into my head,
What was that you just said?
That it’s OK to be turned?

Just a bit of dried ancient neo-revolution,
Or just a salve slave for the constitution,
Out from the dissonance,
T’is vain shit isn’t us?
Grudges hold, redistribution.

Old hangovers and new head breaks,
One of those things is a gilded fake,
Hanging out my guts,
Laughing in the ruts,
How much can a wet dog take?

Idols and TV vapid Barbie and Kens,
The one they birth into signing pens,
Paper recycled verses,
Vinyl coated RPM curses,
Counting coops, while I count to ten…again.
Thomas Spychalski 


Flipped

May 3, 2020
Tired of doing impressive backflips, all on uneven ground…
Nary a little gain, as the efforts drown in sound…
Meanwhile the abstract inside lights the fire and gathers round…
To ruminate doing backflips on uneven ground…
Thomas Spychalski 

Midnight Pen

April 25, 2020
How dare you encroach on this pen black,
When it holds together with dark gold lines the cracks,
Of a broken son that sometimes can dull his own shine,
So we conjure words on this altar of the soul, my beautiful midnight shrine.

Mankind fears always what they just don’t understand,
Who never faced death, never seen the curse of the worst of man,
Be well in the fact that it does not have your scent inside its steel grip,
Unpracticed, untrained, you would crumble and whither and slip.

Never interrupt the faithful at the house at which they pray,
Lest they prey on you and you’re forced to stay,
There was never a day not begun under the charms of midnight’s chime,
Disarming the chill inside your bones is the taste of the sweetest of the blood-red wines.
Thomas Spychalski 

Asking For A Friend

April 22, 2020
I live with a little boy, inside my head, he tried to live the world seemed to want him dead.

Get used to abandonment, all the pain you feel, you will find with time, it’s the only emotion that stays, the only thing that’s real.

You’ll try to take care, within and without, but they will cut you again, fill you with fear and doubt.
And inside our head, in this cell we must stay, you’ll see no light here, no shades of grey.

What if I told you, I could not soldier on through, would you hate me, child, would you abandon me too?

Your filled with love they will go and turn it to hate, you will never be on time, always a step too late.

The walls your now building I can never break down, and outside those walls, there will be no sounds.

You’ll want to feel alive, so much it will ache, but no one will notice all the love you make.

So now I sit here halfway through a nightmare, writing these words, tell me little one if I gave up, left, would you find it absurd?

I have to talk to you, because the new world will be just as cold as the one we left, and I am asking you please, tell me how much is enough yet?

Give me permission, it’s your curtain call as well as mine, I would love to say I will save us, but I am labeled worthless and I’m blind.

So I ask you again, an avatar of me in the long-ago times you’ve seen, would it bother you much if I left this hell, I can never make it clean.
Thomas Spychalski 

Tasteless

April 22, 2020
Tonight, tonight I feel lost but never found,
No one to hear when I speak, so why continue to make sounds?

When all you want is the morning sun, something that seems given to almost everyone.
Emotions flow like waters rushing from rivers into the lake,
We leave the past behind but with it what weight do we take?

Toss me out and turn me off then, silence the light within me then please,
Because I have no taste for the perspective life offers, constantly being forced to my knees.
Thomas Spychalski 

Alarms of the Alone

April 3, 2020

Everyone only needs a light when night comes,
Truth of truths, it’s in the D.N.A., what am I?
Isolate easy but others only percolate when their sky falls their rain cries.

Nobody wants to and even fewer still ever tried,
Danger of talking, internal circles, dusty fingertips,
Lesson learned but never heard to change the melody, expectations die, scales flip.
Chaos surrounds but tell me something new,
Old habits, new damages added, thinner, stripped to the bone,
These words squirm in a life long agony unraveled, the silent alarm of the alone.

Thomas Spychalski

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