Where Everyone Never Knows Your Name

Extended hands reach out to find the air waiting near.

These fingertips are piercing through nothingness with a face;

thought I felt a calming pulse mirroring my pace.

But it’s been said that I say too much about faulty machinery—

Gears turning becoming caught on memories reversing.

It can all reset when I pretend the smile is back.

Signals ring far to search for a voice’s calm blanket,

having been sparked by desire to discover the comfort assured.

Found a complacent companion was what you preferred.

But it’s been said I place value unfairly in these perspectives

where hope is bet on a gesture meaning more than appearances.

It can all be discarded come the moment thereafter.

Noticed the expanding length of the steps needed between,

with days diminishing in the interlude of refusing speech;

considered it a lesson only distance could teach.

But it’s been said I expect too much when giving too much,

feeling skin and soul sink in creases I never perceived prior.

It can enjoy ignorance when I claim there’s nothing there.

And it’s been said in seconds present and the seconds passing

there was only a husk in place since the beginning,

Bouncing along cobblestone lanes, bearing no weight,

managing invisibility in clear view with a gasping throat,

words blocking all notes, cutting protest and forcing rest,

having no will to utter a sound—only fear of the consequence.

The only true thing is the only thing never said,

left to hang in the air like smog filling my lungs.

I could only ever come alive with glasses held high,

appearing in those eyes like having been dead otherwise.

One moon killed by the sun and the crowd moves on;

a new morning to signify that ghost of a friend was gone.

When the choking grows too loud—smoke billowing out,

the shoulders promised turned tail and fled.

I called it a sign and brought it inside of myself,

and through all I believed it was for this I had bled:

For faults out there transformed into faults of my own;

blame for the seconds existing out of frame.

I can pick up, rebuild, and expect no more.

Discard resets, returns, and the notions of either.

Ignorance has no more words to spend.

I’m present—not passing.

Extended hands reach out.

Only the air is waiting near.

It’s not a surprise anymore.

( ❤ Mitch)

Have a happy, safe New Year’s.

Push Back the Dominoes

You want to know the end before the story starts.

If all flesh and bone make a cover for the eyes,

play judge for me and reign over our mutual trajectory.

Find a purpose in these gestures if there’s a meaning to be found.

It’s a lifetime to be spent digging into an empty vault.

Rip away the years and still nothing will be there to fill the chamber.

Here are the hundreds of reasons against exhaling left untamed on torn sheets.

I started the first line with you in mind and for the rest I followed in kind.

There’s a vacancy occupied in each stabbing reminder,

and the pen flies across the pages to capture the look you gave.

These words fill a hundred pictures, shot in perfect sequence,

letters dressed in their perfect tops and ties,

never failing to grasp the lasting impression of becoming a disappointment in that glance.

Here are the blanks you colored in without ever needing a voice.

Looking now, as was then, I never realized how it appeared from the outside:

A sculpture carved in fragile ice melting in its self-appointed sun.

Pedestals spring from the earth; it’s hard to figure how they reach so high,

and why the figures placed upon can so freely press their fingers down upon my frame.

Such a scattered collection of thoughts was received amongst questions kept silent,

all responsibility internalized to embody the sole liability.

This shadow cast by your towering shape is no longer mine to hide in.

Ruins defy disappearance when coded into conscious,

but I’m stepping through every chapter to erase the name inside.

It has been time and still further time to come where barely a flicker remains

of a star that once burned so bright overhead.

Yet what was called connection and given purpose, given feeling,

had nothing more but an excuse attached to leech and prosper in spite of others.

Held so high over me, I leave you powerless.

Reignited without, I find no more of this.

I said too much of it and I say no more of it.

I said too much of it and I say no more of it.

( ❤ Mitch)

Sunset in Rose

A little hole in the head is all that is necessary.

A little weight off the wallet is enough for a commitment unconsidered.

Whether it’s a trick of the mind or a will of the heart,

there will always be time to take the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

And they’re all standing lined up at attention:

A resurrected skeleton crew set to dance to a familiar tune.

They’re tapping away on a stage worn down through cycles of esteem.

There’s a hit;

Something starts to snake up my veins.

There’s a hit;

No structure remains below my feet.

There’s a hit;

Illustrations bleed into the real.

There’s a hit, there’s a hit, there’s a hit.

When the stream is cleared out of the drained reservoir of these irises,

a stretch of fabric be tossed onto the surface—

The glorious red-carpet affair of the drama of yesteryear’s last year,

and the ensuing anticipation of the continuing coincidence of matching plots.

Never before has the envelope gone sailing off the edge, thusly it is claimed,

as the curtain covers the constant truth of the all-apparent status quo.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and pretend the things that are there have long disappeared.

It’s a ploy to pry the wandering thought from clutching to a persistent memory,

reanimating the undead for their timeless ritual on their timeless platform,

providing motion to emotion as if their limbs are forged in fire and iron,

everlasting in ages and the shifting of geography.

The oceans can swell and change their tides or push off the lands of dreams.

It never circumvents the incoming hit.

There will never be safety from the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

Direct the blocking made so familiar in the quiet knocking of trauma

as the tally marks reappear across the abdomen—

Yesteryear is back on the headlines.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and declare the decisions fed in your ear by a whispering ghost.

She’s making promises with her fingers tied in knots,

tucking her full hand around the waist.

The theatrics roar at the sound of a snap

and I feel a hit.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, Finale

Challenged in power twice now,

the act of losing,

foreign to the conquest I oversaw,

hastens its pace,

with a breathing tsunami approaching,

and I, stranded, bearing its weight.

Encountering pain far from past pleasure,

I find scars where armor had been laid,

now the gaping maw of a waterfall’s barrage.

The soul I’ve uncovered begins to decay.

Encountering a force so driven against,

I feel limbs abandon their outposts in favor of ache,

the spectacle of an erupting forest depleting.

The soul I’ve uncovered begins to decay.

With shadows beckoning my arrival to obscurity

where questions evade the answers of morals,

I wonder if this was engineered in predetermination;

If the sights I have seen and the emotion within

were the flaws in the blood I had once drank from,

and the fall I now face is the conclusion I’ve forever known

for being human in the womb of an insect.

I wonder if this is the mistake that drives this killing blow

and if this is the mistake that permits me to embrace it,

watching without pain now as flesh collapses inward.

I know now the love you found.

I find at the brink of uncertainty the heart I never acknowledged.

Can it be…

can it be possible

as I embrace this killing blow,

You can survive to tell it all?

You can endure where I could not

And no man can steal away your domain.

I know it all now.

I’m thankful it could be me

to be your ultimate defense

and take this spear’s strike.

I’m thankful to have lived.

The 5 Epic Battles of Hunter x Hunter! - MyAnimeList.net

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 3

A corpse limps from the caverns of the room.

The cold by my side lingers.

His expression is an obscured slate,

no face visible beyond a wayward morality.

Crawling down the back of my neck and toying with my nerves,

a quiet voice enters the space,

offering a plain request:

Fix a foe who has passed into an unknown.

Defy the mechanics of death itself when exposed to an unprepared mind.

I can care not, for I have no power.

Save a life that has flickered out of time and into memory,

torturing a spirit too young to comprehend.

I can care not, for I know not the way.

Seeping silently out of a growing agony,

a storm begins its invasion of innocence.

Wind races about,

bounding off of the tiles,

the gusts of a mounting anger forming an immovable object

stained with the recollection of trauma on repeat,

the tragedy that makes a boy a soldier,

and a soldier into a hollowed bearer of a scythe

swinging wild at anything that crosses its path.

Here is where the crosshair comes to focus.

Through the hole it makes in my chest,

I see a sniper’s aim straight to my allegiance.

True or not, it is no difference;

The risk is emanating from a towering boy

turned killer by circumstance.

Let it find its match in this room.

I am the palace walls that have yet to fall.

I am the barrier that sustains the life behind.

I am the one with a purpose to find,

a promise to keep,

a word to abide by.

Use everything that you care to use.

Your ambition will land on the shield I create.

As a hurricane finds purchase in unbridled ire,

routes are shuttered at their escapes.

Found in the range of a reaper’s ceaseless lust,

what’s left to consider is to hold fast in the soil

and fight for the secret all too transparent.

gon vs pitou Eng Sub - YouTube
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 2

Colder than a whisper of Hell,

a presence emerges from the gates.

No more than a child yet with a devil’s might

and a devil’s care for collateral damage,

with a crosshair unwavering from my chest

and the last objective I’ve to fulfill.

History screams in a voice barren of negotiation

as the innocent are pulled from the sidelines into the firing squad.

No more can be given.

I’ve become a husk for the sake of another

at the direction of a beloved.

No more can be given but a plea and a promise.

Never is there to be harm upon the casualty of our collision.

If there is blame to be had in the name of the past,

take this ruptured arm for the trophy of your rage

and step away from the secret.

Doubt has been made alien to me at the threat of defeat.

My conviction is singular and your intent is a flying spear.

Away from these walls, you may guide me away,

but it is never to be if a stray scratch adorns this frame I tend to.

An errant action will be off with your head.

I’ll swear this upon the second promise I can make:

Guide me away, but spare the spare,

whose only fault was to be stuck in our middle.

Lay not a finger.

I swear on this:

Upon her first breath I will meet your history

and the score shall settle itself in due course.

Nestled in the nadirs of a concealed arena,

this can all be brought to its end.

At your demand I am forced to abide,

seeing her body flinch as it awakens to the world,

seeing the finality that rests in a devil’s immobile stance.

Should you find a way through me, I now come to fear:

What of the king miles away?

Drowned in the bleak battle that’s assured by your power,

that which I care for most now finds itself out of balance

and I feel duty awaken anew inside.

Hunter x Hunter (2011) – A closer look at Gon vs Neferpitou – blautoothdmand
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 1

That which captivates your gaze has shifted.

It’s in the dying embers of imperial dreams,

fading from where once a fire was in your eyes.

Frigid tones emerge from the mouth of a conqueror

who once commanded flames at the tip of his tongue.

In the raining of artillery blows,

that which captivates your gaze has fallen,

set to expire on the outskirts of an existential plight,

and it is here where you have placed me.

Foes at the gates race about the desolate grave of humanity,

yet here is where I am placed to remain,

as a motion from the other side finds its momentum

and the turbulence casts you to a distant fate.

How am I not to charge into the same destiny?

Are you to forget the purpose to which you have been assigned?

Caressing in the hold of a spell,

I vie for a meaning in a lesser that has found a gilded domain,

replacing a king’s colony with something cloaked in gray,

defying the resistance and the clarity of our vision,

rendered black and white perfectly at conception,

now scattered into a separate sense of self.

Mending a fractured figure in the hold of my spell,

I recall the swords shot straight from your irises—

The final act of command delivered into my hands,

the consequence illustrated plainly in undressed words.

In her small form lies a secret.

I find myself close to finding a secret

and the reason your life has swayed.

It was duty from birth to sacrifice for the greater good.

It will be duty now to sacrifice for your greater self,

protecting the reason for marching into obscurity

where my hope for your safety descends from my grasp.

What I would pour out for you I will pour out for her.

Every reservoir drained.

Every channel unleashed.

Let the power exit me or let me wither.

No future is gilded until I see your light stand again.

Hunter x Hunter has both the properties of rubber and gum - The Something  Awful Forums
(I do not own this image)

( ❤ Mitch)

Lend the Rope, I’ll Tie the Knot

Hang the outlier.

Take this on the authority of a liar,

for a liar I am and out beyond the lines.

With the bark and the nail and the hammer in the back,

raise the marauder among the ranks,

further into the sky with arms outstretched

for now having the allure of a beautiful potential, preparing to embrace.

The secret behind the fear in the clouds is theirs to behold.

By chance it could be a plunge into the everlasting shadow—

The infinity of nothing in all its lack of glory.

By chance it could be a reach into the fabled story of eternity—

The unending reality of never feeling worry.

Hang the outlier and hang them high,

for I’ve heard on the authority of a liar,

and the liar I am and far too assured to falter.

A balloon around the wrist and a cannonball for the ankle.

I’ll take these tokens of friendship,

wear them proudly upon my fragility

as the matching consequence to the sensitivity underneath my frame.

No concrete domain opens to the approach of years.

This is a guarantee placed on a gambler’s word.

The bridge could fold on its own design and unravel out of time.

A construct so clear finds obscurity in the throes of uncertainty,

with the certainty itself hiding in direct sight.

Hang the outlier and hang them tight,

for I’ve heard on the authority of a liar,

and the liar I stay and deluded to veracity.

A hollow mark for the efforts never made and never meant,

for there was never a chance to reach for clarity.

No space was left to consider an alternative.

The lashes on these joints and the hand on my throat

bear one at fault only, and I can’t meet his eyes.


( ❤ Mitch)

Manifest Nothing

Gray expanse cluttered with industry and broken wheels.

I read in a book and had it placed in my head that it’ll take me somewhere someday.

The words tumble out the same as they always have;

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

wilting violently in the heat of a southern sun.

Every bump on the path is laid with no intention beside potential derision

as a puppet master shakes their head at the twisting of their name.

Grit those teeth and keep blood below the boiling point

because there’s said to be promise beyond the flat green totality.

And it screams in the radio when a different song is playing,

or in the hum of the engine struggling to deal with the potholes:

The everlasting beckoning of a dream that’s not there;

A future that’s rusted around its waist.

These passing structures attest to a past that is drifting by.

The white of the cold months wipes the dull slate clean,

readying for a year of conquest with the return of the most vacant bright color.

In a cycle it turns in time with the shifting of the night;

A repetitive fable of a place set in nowhere with an aspiration for somewhere less.

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

sinking dispassionately in a heap of southern sand.

The gray stretches on, having no limitations on its sprawling limbs,

Every nondescript station a dot on a broader horizon as exhaust climbs higher.

Submerged in a quiet desperation do I find my numbing mind,

the details that were never there magnified in their empty scale.

I swear at this point I must have been a passenger to every tree in the land,

their bark the conduit of the hollow myths currency is traded for.

This rust is rubbing off onto the fabric of these bones.

There’s no boundary to the sky so there’s no telling why I saw an end to the stars.

The roaring nothing is never lost on my ears.

( ❤ Mitch)

Metric Explanations of Decomposition

I was always worried this room would stay small,

and I’d never know how until the end of it all.

The stray sharp edge was enough of a reason

when the reaping came by every season.

Raise the curtain and let the spotlight poke through,

the yellow bright shining on the caverns under my eyebrows.

It’s another day making love to a make-up kit,

making up a made-up expression to make a false perception.

Read off the notecard tucked under the mirror as the bad shapes reappear

and repeat after the repeat that this is not defeat:

These are only the days that fall short of expectation when set too high,

the constructed sun of last night’s promises singeing ambitious wings.

A nonexistent ring is a victim of an unbalanced floor raised to the second story,

the roof locked in, forced to complacency by owner’s hand.

The faults in the foundation never left the bathroom mirror.

The cracks in the framing were always on the decaying expression.

I remember walking through the passages in this ghost-town of a house,

never noticing the process of the walls as they had become so tall.

So suddenly it seemed that scorched limbs were backed against shrinking borders.

With a back perpetually against a brick face,

I’ll place blame on the runaway builder,

tucking behind the shovel, the scythe, the tools of the trade,

forgoing the plan of questioning the lines carved in the concrete.

The faults in the foundation had been there for the entirety.

The reason of it all at the end of it all runs in the wooden veins of my frame.

This space so small when at the final bow was the construction of these hands.

Like a planet orbiting, the place where I was will always return in the passage of time,

And spinning as fast as I was, trying to get dazed and fall out of order,

I got my wrist stuck on a stray edge and felt the floorboards creak.

( ❤ Mitch)