Shake Me, Ms. Apocalypse

There is a sharp drop straight off into the ocean

with one little stone to play against the waves,

and there’s only room for one to hold their stance,

so naturally we’re both clinging on the fringes.

All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.

Animal instinct takes root at our bases:

Feast or fuck—the fight-or-flight dilemma,

and our wings got in a twist,

clipped by Dante’s wrist to a lower level.

There’s more value in the soil for scorched earth tactics.

Consider us the first casualties of concerted nonaggression,

the tops of these pots and pans boiling over the edges.

All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.

What’s it matter when there’s nothing to lose and nothing to gain?

Sink in your teeth,

claw on the wrists,

struggle for moments of breath above the surface.

A shallow sand grave follows inside each mark that’s made,

so a fleeting grace is worth the cost.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose distress, we’re electing defeat.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose death, we’re injecting disease.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose no more, we never left that fucking rock.

( ❤ Mitch)

Well, if We Don’t Go Anywhere, We’ll Still Be Here

Calm your nerves—this can last for all night.

No destination.

Gliding through locations.

We travel on the power of our troubles,

put together and wrapped under this comfortable familiarity,

distracting from memory

of when one hand was wrapped in the other.

A dance of love flashed in the eyes,

and the curtain fell down some years ago.

Speak not of any of it now.

Just travel.

Burn any map.

With the flick of the wheel we’ll outrun every problem

clouding up our weary heads.

Quiet the worries.

In no time we drift as only atoms,

colliding in the vast space between,

calculating the weight of all things.

Never touch the brakes or fall asleep.

If we blink, we will smash through the windshield of our insecurities.

In a flash we crash inside the sky,

where constellations caress the night,

gently embracing.

Should their courage and their strength descend in our lives,

the blood from the mess will amount to something more than tears.

Whether I believe this or not is irrelevant.

What matters is that we share the same bed.

Drive faster—the morning is calling.

Don’t leave.

Don’t depart.

Should you hit reverse this moment will end,

becoming nothing more than a film reel in the story of existence.

Right now, I just want to live here.

This dream can be shared,

if we only just sit and listen.

Listen to the hum of the engine.

Hear the crickets quietly singing.

And above all else,

tell the reasons why to be alive.

This dream can be shared.

( ❤ Mitch)

By Policy, it is Declared

There can be no more hope, so says the federation.

Tiny cells all unite to pronounce desperation.

Whether personal belief brings this forward, I don’t know,

but split my skull and surely there’s much to show.

The theory of my failure rests deep in superstition:

That someday the parts won’t equal to the whole.

Keep the lights dim and pour on the rain effects,

since I’m out of ways to drain the water from my fears.

If you can build something beautiful, I have to see.

If you have something to say I need to hear it.

If there’s a place you need to be, I’ll be the guide there,

and if you find yourself buried, I’ll dig you out.

But ask nothing about how my heart’s feeling tonight.

I have no inspiration—keep your eyes to yourself.

The steady drum of pen on paper—a monotonic marching band—

just the sound of tedium thundering out.

How could it be to bring all the worst out of me?

The mouth dictates mind but today I have no words to find.

Any string of letters erupting is simply tumbling,

unfurling like a rainbow—the allure that brings you nowhere.

How could it be—you bring the worst out of me.

I dive into your irises and for once feel no consequence.

The confederacy of casual sends danger signals out,

because if I’m falling for this then I’ll break myself again.

Instead, I’m sitting across and laughing away my thoughts.

You said you run on caffeine and gravity:

One kept you moving and the other kept you grounded.

No matter where you leave, there’s a compass back to home.

Though your vision of home has an accent,

mine is familiar, mine is easy, mine is safe.

Give it time and you could crack down every wall,

and for once in this life I’ll live without a shell.

But there’s a reason we wear our shields and don our masks:

Some of us stand tall in a hurricane and others shatter like glass.

When I speak of you, nothing but purity coats the stories I convey,

but it covers for the fact my own tales are in shreds.

I hate the front and the pages, the way the conclusion shifts and sways,

and I hate the way you make me care about myself.

If I was self-aware, I’d abandon ship now,

but I’m drunk off of a crushing feeling in my chest.

To make this easy, send a note about our odds,

and if it doesn’t stack up, I’ll sleep better and float away.

As it is, I’ve already spent too much time stressing

for something that—deep down—will always be nothing.

And maybe it could but maybe not,

and maybe there are too many maybes.

All I know—deep down—is that after all the stressing

it will always amount to the same summation—nothing.

When the federation shot you down, I mourned at the funeral;

not for the loss of friend but the loss of a voice:

A haven where my loneliness was for once wrapped in comfort.

A place so close my lips had almost graced it.

But I did the numbers—if I stay here, I’ll shiver to death.

You’re face-up in your coffin asking me “How’s my luck? How’s this love?”

And on my lack of self-esteem I hereby swear, “not a chance.”

( ❤ Mitch)