Sitting Ovation

June 28, 2020

Something like gravitation, a fascination, yet machinations takes the fixation through filtration then frustration, leading to stagnation…

And in the end, it’s just another bend with the flirtation of scared silent divination, just our mom’s natural rotation but I feel like I’ve been put on probation but it’s really a whine and moan narration…

So I guess for right now we can forget the next standing ovation…

Thomas Spychalski 


Curtain Call

June 24, 2020

You always want me to be your sunshine, but it’s hard to soak up the light when you feel as cold as the moon.
Through trials and tribulations it’s never mine, but yet they tell me for the honest and good man, it must be coming soon.

And yet we have to live through today, perform today’s version of this play, and even if I cry after the curtains draw closed and sway, the things that burn within I’d never give away.
Thomas Spychalski


Difference

June 24, 2020

I’m out here is there anything real,
Anger rises and I hate to feel…

…All those things that call inside,
Wounds deep that hurt my pride.

Liars and circumstance of the task,
Meanwhile, you get to choose to bask…

…In all the things I willingly gave,
Guess it is my lot always a drone, slave.

When all I want to do is rest in arms,
That truly loves me, never to harm…

…Endless fruitless circle, cold thrush,
So infected, this dark heart does gush.

Bleeding out here for all to point and see,
The difference between you and me.

…Is I make it my purpose to hold and heal,
While you are a criminal, one-sided chance to steal.
Thomas Spychalski 


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 

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