Pitchforks And Flowers

December 29, 2017

Beating my chest to an empty room in the dark,
Why can’t we stop the anger and the pain, create a spark?
I’m dreaming and seething all at the same time,
Halfway through this and still cannot see my crime.

Followed all of you around, maybe you didn’t know it,
Because I think the whole world’s above me, although I try not show it,
I could say I’ll try again, but I always just blow it…

I ask myself what the hell is wrong with me?
Do I repulse the world that much, feeling like Mary Shelley’s creation,
All I ever wanted so long it was a love of any kind and life’s moments shared, but instead just got straight starvation.

Busting my broken hearts against a shattered window pane,
That I can never see out of, be the weather sun or rain.
Living with the inside intercom, come alive once more,
Telling me no matter what, just hide and hate, nothing is ever outside our door.

Thinking is believing is a truth but seeing actions are another,
Why people cut off full signal strength, then tell me I’m their brother.
Others have said they cared and praised me hesitant and faintly,
Meanwhile, the pools of people gather every week so saintly.

Where was I when the bombs went, lighting life’s empty chambers,
Cut off supplies I see delivered on the line, then get chastised, why so confused by my anger?
It’s all right now, just won’t reach out at all anymore,
One request though as you leave, these feelings I’ve felt inside, what are they for?
Thomas Spychalski 


December 9, 2017

Such a fool was I, on those dark nights, listening to the cries of the wolves outside my door.

They could not be domesticated, my heart and soul was confiscated, now I am bitten to the core.

Then a person appeared in my window and they were full of delights:

“Do not listen to the wilderness of thought, I am here to keep you company on this cold, cold night.”

“Only thing I require is just a few drops of your blood, I mean you have an abundance, why it’s nearly a flood!”


So I let them drink from the vein closest to my heart, and the pain subsided with the thrill of purpose and pieces were glued together that were once apart.

As days grew to months and years I grew sick and weary of their promises and tales of the world outside my chambers, they refused to let me join in the internal life I sought, but they made use of every stolen hour they had bought.

Finally one night they stayed far longer than usual, almost to the rising of the new day’s sun:

“This is it for you I’m afraid to say, there is not one drop left I need, today is the day.”

I puffed up proud as I could, starved and angry at the wait, but the next part proved a dire fate.

“For you see today I will leave you to burn, you silly man, who wanted to let us feed, do you finally now understand?

I never wanted your company, never wanted your presence near mine, I just wanted to quench my need for blood and now its almost time.

You will be reborn then I will burn you, such a stupid plaything that you are, you said you desired light in your life so I’ve given you this burning star.

Take your mortal coil, make it rattle fine, excuse the smile on my blood soaked lips, you really thought you were mine.”

So he leaped from the window down to the snow covered ground, after that I heard not a sound.

Too weak to move because of the draining, to save my own skin I now was straining.

Finally exhausted I just watched as the sun rose over the hills, bringing a light of promise to those without ills, finally relaxed as I started to feel the burn, for some of us there are balanced relations, the rest of us may never learn.

Calm washed over me as I watched my body burn and wither, a victim of the gullibility to not be alone, everyday wants that never came hither.

Peace, at last, this was now, no worries, problems, or debates, for some of us can climb the steps to solace, but for some of us, who try to draw love from stones, it is much too late.

Thomas Spychalski 

That Old Wet Dog Feeling

July 16, 2016


Tired of that old wet dog feeling,

hate the way my fur mats down in the rain.

Loathe the way my howls are muted by thunder,

and the lightning just alights my disdain.


Tired of my paws aching,

From paths I’ve walked before.

Tired of no packs taking,

When I’m scratching at their doors.

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July 9, 2016


Shifting direction due to fact,

Bad thoughts have no tact.

I feel easier on the run,

freedom and slavery are one.


Open eyes to the sun,

Light a dreadful pun.

Personal one night stand,

Father am I yet a man?

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It Cures All Ills

July 9, 2016


Wicked still and gasping for breath,

Old wares dragged up to the crest.

Masks come undone, curtain call,

as it rises through your chest.


Fever in the guise of manic thought,

sweating out the sickness internal.

Aching in ways to debilitate,

inner talk becomes infernal.

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Short Fiction: The Perfect Crime

August 10, 2015


This was originally inspired by a writing Prompt from Reddit.

Enjoy and please let me know what you think of it in the comment section:

“No good will come of this you know”

“I know…”

The couple stood over the dead body, staring down at the lifeless form at their feet. The Body was still fresh, the eyes open and accusing, the hollow stare that will one day happen to all of us when the soul vacates it’s shell.

“So what do we do now?” She asked.

“I guess we bury it, try to make sure she does not see it before she gets up.”

She looked at her watch, then up at the bedroom window on the second floor of the house.

“That only gives us a couple hours…”

“Then we better work quickly then.”

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