Thin Skinned

April 14, 2019

“From an online debate on if grammar matters, and it does:”

I see you have pride, yes, but do you have those tools,
To take it like you love it, beaten down yes, granted,
But it is not your opponent but your ego that’s the fool,
When you have such ignorance to shun purposed rules.

A penny for naught is the same as the tired old game,
Conning yourself to declare the crown of the master,
I see the fire burning, but cannot decipher those flames,
You cannot design the interior in gold without the frame.

Grab that shield and armor, put down that weary old sword,
It was sharpened by a dream, one you never awaken from,
I cannot read you right, I get confused and really quite bored,
For in this arena it is not ‘proper’ but comprehension that is the lord.
Thomas Spychalski 

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Thrown In My Path

February 13, 2019

I don’t sit here and imagine perfect vistas,
Places that don’t seem to exist outside my head.
Recalling all the times I bumped into fate unprepared,
Memories of tracks you can’t replay, the station is dead.

Don’t stumble in my path,
Don’t tell me your darkest fears,
Don’t you dare tumble my heart,
When endings and motives are so unclear.

I don’t go around asking you to save my life,
Because I know the tools are buried in myself, within,
I can help you and will, but then forget I exist.
To be without longing is to be without future sin.
Thomas Spychalski 


Circling The Drain

May 26, 2018

The guy had to be dealing some kind of drug, not sure what, but he stood there under the awning of the small liquor store, just barely out of the steady rain that had started in the morning and continued all afternoon.

All day long numerous people had stopped by his little nesting place, and even a moderately trained eye could see that there was some kind of exchange being made. What fascinated Roger most was that people from all races, cultures, and walks of life came by to buy his wares, and he seemed almost like a chameleon, blending in to fit each new person who approached him, joking and laughing or being tough and ‘all business,’ it was almost like watching a master painter at work, each new person was a sale, a way to earn a living and possibly more, he was well trained in the game he had chose to play.

Most would not see the small trickles of fear with every instance where he had to act tough or hard as nails, most would not see the impatience and annoyance with each joke or round of small talk he made. That, of course, was due to the pain behind the whole show being played out on this sad little corner of an impoverished area of the city.

Roger could free him from this pain, but what then, could he face what always came next?

Standing up from where he was crouching behind a dumpster across the street from the dealer’s spot, Roger could feel tears welling up from inside him. It was always like this, this gift, this intelligence, it hurt.

Once on the other side of the street, Roger began to walk faster, he was starting to have doubts. Each time he did this he was right there with his most horrible demons as well as the other persons, most of the time the knowledge he imparted to them he felt impotent or incompetent to use. It was the mysterious irony of the whole thing, once he gave them the key to the door, he was liable to make his own prison more secure later on.

Roger was there now next to him, past the point where he could appear like he was just walking past, maybe even pass off that approach as a way to use the awning the dealer was under to dodge the relentless drops of rain. The dealer was sizing him up, getting ready to use his own ‘gift.’

“What’s good?” The dealer said in a dead tone, all the better to adjust his camouflage once he could hear my reply and know which mode to go into.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Roger said, or thought he said, at any rate, once the process got to this point, it became surreal, like a psychedelic drug. You could be sure what you were seeing and hearing was based on true external stimuli, but you could never be sure of what you were actually seeing at all, a confounding experience.

Roger reached out and touched the dealer’s chest. His mind was filled with flowing images and sounds, mixing at merging at times, but then there were very clear pictures, ones that showed Roger what he was after. The dealer’s name was Michael but he went by ‘Rock,’ and his history passed in a slightly jumbled puzzle.
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Waste Magnet

April 24, 2018

I…

I may have been a bitter fiend, but behind that confessional screen, secrets were given that I too never wanted, swear I saw love there you later denied and never vaunted, once my sickness became clear.
Could not even get those basic handwritten letters, credits paid to lesser debtors, everywhere you all would go, sacred places I would never know, you make me feel horrible about my fear.

Meanwhile outside the din of voices, retconning my disaster era choices, the proverbial sticks, and zones, that in a speech to others, soil my bones, what will make those little mice cease?
So add those little lifelong gashes together, plus surviving my location’s severe weather, everyone says to seek delight, but every time I find a reason to fight, I just fold myself into another crease.

Seems this magnet only attracts eventual waste, so rather then more pain I will wear this face, hide wounded without a trace, radio silence in haste, hung jury and no damn case, yeah it is me who misplaced, but also me who has to live with what the others never said out loud and my own damn disgrace at wearing the mask.
Thomas Spychalski 


Writer’s Serenade

January 26, 2018

I want to make love to you with words,
Get down and grease you up in dirty verbs.
Talk about ‘freak’ but haven’t you heard,
This is the new sex darling, not so absurd.

Let me take you to places only I can imagine,
We can live there in decent/indecent fashion.
Buckle those head belts, seats securely fastened,
This love cannot be severed or rationed.

Let me sentence you, to sentences of English lust,
Don’t believe that skin, but in the soul, we must.
Wipe off that vanilla scent of redly golden rust,
Besides truly in the inner and outer who do we trust?

Paragraphs laid out in sweet dark temptation,
Take my hand, equal now, no more trepidation.
My prowess is my head, a nasty beautiful reputation,
Don’t try to reason now, lost in bliss, no equalization.

Follow along through the once created rabbit hole,
Don’t you see your hidden prominent godly role?
If I put you in words, you’re my heart and my soul,
Now tell me sweetly, do you really wanna go?
Thomas Spychalski

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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 


November: Month of Blistered Typing Fingers

October 29, 2017

On a catch up ‘day’

I am a glutton for punishment.

Last November, I ‘won’ NaNoWriMo, and even though that sounds like I contracted a rare tropical disease, it actually just means I wrote 50,000 words of the first draft of a novel by writing every single day in November (I am not gonna lie, I missed day one to three and played catch up several times but if there is one thing I can do, its drone on baby, especially in text format!) for National Novel Writing Month.

That was actually kind of a nice way to get motivated to actually knuckle down and kick out a book that has been in my head in some form or another since the late nineties at least. So of course, I plan on doing it again next month and although the daily word count does sort of flow from me once I am ‘warmed up,’ tackling the assorted tasks and mishaps that can come in writing the first draft of a novel is not easy if you have never tried it yourself.

So earlier in the week I was browsing around for something to inspire me so even in the not so perfect situation I am currently living in, I have no ‘zero days,’ even if the day itself was a lonely, boring, and painful day from hell.

In the process, I caught another of them there funny tropical diseases with the funny names: NaBloPoMo.

National Blog Posting Month…a post each day in November.

Now, where this new strain of writing motivation stands, I have a couple of easy ways out.

I sometimes publish fiction and poetry here from the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt, so there is a few at the very least. The majority of the content here is poetry, which flows from me like running water honestly and I always wanted to implement and post about the content of the book Thirty-One Days to a Better Blog on a day by day, post by post basis, but that may be umm…postponed.

However, I also decided to, with the handy aid of writer’s intuition to hopefully make the content accessible and readable, write a bit about my own life and the challenges within it.

Being the tidy sort that likes to keep his websites organized, that is why this new section: Effigies Vitae Meae was created.

Additionally, will also be writing more about what I see going on around me in the world, especially in modern times, which honestly just seems to get scarier and weirder as well.

Ideas for this section are already in place…watch this space.

Thomas Spychalski 

 

 


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