Fiction, Friction, Addiction

A million things are meant when I hold you to my chest.

A million more arrive in the words delivered down your throat,

hoping the loose lip rivals of warships keep their tremors quiet,

and whatever could be is allowed to be

before a Sisyphean mind turns blind to chance.

A million things are meant when I write across my abdomen,

contorting the cartography into cacophonous scars,

each mark shouting a million more verses destined for dead ears,

having changed frequency years prior,

existing only in memory’s secluded channel.

A million things are meant in a forceful shove in response.

A million more erupt in how I wed myself to hypotheticals,

where the only place we find peace is where we can never be found,

locked deep in the remains of my heart,

counting shards with broken fingers.

A million less is the best from which I observe in you

and the shakes of the head to any question ever-after unanswered,

rendering what could be to never be in actuality,

blessing the word of depression as sainthood.

It’s all I ever hear.

It’s all I really know.

( ❤ Mitch)

Observations in a Sea of Dead Saplings

Fighting to let your trunk grow tall.

Carving a place in the deep dark light.

Suckling on the touch of gin won’t offer purchase in the soil,

yet a fleeting vagrant took the role of the sun.

Drips from his bottle leave behind a garden of graves.

There’s no shovel big enough to unearth a semblance of solace.

I’ve got the warning signs of history etched into,

and I weave it into parchment as a message for your heart.

My body is the map of dead-end dilemmas,

the conduit for a misguided rage,

cutting holes and folding over creases to invent nonexistent escapes.

My body is the map to follow as I unravel.

The canyons of handheld glaciers are a lesson in twisted geography.

There won’t be profit earned from willing flaws into existence.

Sitting in depths where arms cannot reach down,

you’ve penned the story prematurely,

using words to paint a self-portrait of a target:

The Kezia of a rampant apathy that drains its passengers,

dropping off the remnants in a junkyard.

Are you proud to lay in a garden of graves?

Is it a pleasing fate to let another feast on your rays?

Has it been wasted time to stretch out surgically for a gaze

that saw nothing but a passing billboard sign,

driven by and never noticed?

Starring over scarification that endures through cycling years,

I wonder if it lasts forever as an artillery shell’s cave.

How far and long the struggle has gone,

and it doesn’t mean a single thing yet.

How far and long you’ve started to slip,

and I find no solace in any of it.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Passion for Demolition

Proudly do we stand on defeated ground,

waving around battle flags under a blanket of white,

settling a settled score as if we could settle for less.

These boards could be stripped of all nailed down to them

until mist-laden remembrances are the enduring remnants

to testify to the ruin of bodies deemed crippled by inadequacy.

A hammer to the trusses for mistrust turned fatal.

A blow to the basement where innocence once so lovingly bowed.

A blaze for artifacts dated by faded meaning

until we are all that’s left

before our temples are laid to rest.

( ❤ Mitch)

They Crave Only Her Skin

Carved up.

Hung out to dry on a winter’s branch.

He’s not going to come back around.

The hand that caressed so gently

held the surgical precision that exercised so slowly.

He’s not going to come back around.

Grasping the snowflakes of memories.

They melt on contact when desperate urges lash out,

too brittle for a bandage to blockade against the knife’s turn.

There’s always a hope from a fading lantern’s glow

as the lightbearer faints under the weight of their guise.

The cloaks pulled down show the hidden faces of the dear ones.

Words snake about to snare a riding hood,

dressing up as smiles that never bear meaning,

with an apple in their sights ripe for the picking.

Stranded in the snow.

Drowning silently.

Carved up without a lung to scream with.

Carved up and wishing for a hunter to reverse its shot.

Those eyes paint a portrait of lust beyond your frame.

Ashes eat away at recollection.

Dust will not hold a name in a sea of falling snow.

He’s not going to come back around.

An arrow is drawn taut and fired true.

The shields in its path bow out of step for a finishing blow.

Dream in the grip of seasons with crimson coloring the ground.

It is already off and away to the next vessel to strip.

Disposed in a forgotten triste.

Carved up.


Left empty in the breeze.

Not a thought will be spared for the scene.

( ❤ Mitch)


Refusal of a farewell to picket fences.

Adjusting the metrics of memory to compensate for loss.

Exclude present thought for a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

a past fit only for dolls.

Dressed up in expectations expired,

luring in for discovery with bright walls and passion calls,

visiting rooms of unborn embodied by industrial recollections.

Current views through the mirror scrape off the paint.

Relevancy infuses disease into the bones of a home.

Out of state to the rhythm of children’s footsteps

as they rove about a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

inhabitants fit in a vision of us

that died in a closed door,

severed phone conversations;

hurried steps from the imaginary.

( ❤ Mitch)

You Will Always Lose

It rummages about,

rampaging in the dark clarity of slumber,

rifling through shelved ideas.

Cluttered it comes to be

half-past acceptance of being awake,

half-before the sun’s encroaching glare.

In perfect lighting,

Shadows thrive in ignorance,

undiscovered by the myth of lucidity.

Catharsis denied in dampened returns to the bed,

unclean by the shocked, sweat-stained rhythm

of a figure rising to prepare a fall

into the corridors of the lurking expectations,

rummaging about in imperfect theater;

the impetus of inevitable disappointment.

( ❤ Mitch)

Under an Unmarked Headstone

Recall the taste of mulch.

Tumble down at a show of force.

Wandering fingers twitch at the feeling of familiar dirt.

Does it linger there in the backstage

where the looking-glass man cowers in bandages,

tied tight to trauma it never knew was there?

The playground barons and the pavement kings

camp out in the hippocampus with a smoldering fire.

Sixty dollar checks direct a hose to the scene;

they pick up their belongings,

shift to an elsewhere,

lighting a recollection when nothing can brace the shock.

Shove off masters of the belt as conquest begins,

a fake Napoleon spreading flags across the continent of consciousness.

Bounce off to out of sight, ought of mind,

and his unrequited rage reflects back in lost hours of sleep,

soldiers digging trenches under eyelids

where the scarification of skin fails to heal lingering craters.

Does it remain never-fading?

Does it still come as the arctic cold,

racing across the spinal cord as a torrid freeze?

No shield protects the skeletal frame from crumbling under its head’s weight,

bearing the brunt of remembrance it cannot withstand.

The lashes at night are no longer a dream.

The faces that torment no longer cease.

Shiver at night with no mouth to speak,

and nothing remains but a voiceless scream.

Nothing to be done except play roulette with pill rounds.

Turn it over and over and over again.

( ❤ Mitch)

Count the Errors

On a daily

sliding scale,

where are you found?

Which statistic is speaking

at the direction of a finger’s assertion?

Now as it wavers in air,

dwindling to the side

of a sliding scale,

where are you?

On a daily

mounting dosage,

what sector of mind talks?

In reoccurring conversation flow,

a distance transforms the self and its killer,

placing the latter at center focus

as the former is escorted off,

restrained for examination,

picked apart.

On a daily

slipping grasp,

how do you balance?

When the edge is excavated,

scraped off by a scalpel’s ill intent,

do you collapse for more?

Perhaps seek another

ready ledge to cling

and breathe.

On a daily

concluding scene,

have the credits rolled?

Scrolling through insomnia’s throes

in the decaying glow of an opened window,

has an escape route been uncovered?

Does it flash in memory?

Still it drags on,


On a daily

sinking story,

what will bail you out?

The buckets have holes drilled in.

The savior’s been tossed off to drift,

and his gift was only a sour taste

that lingers on the tongue

and deeply drops

a sliding scale.

( ❤ Mitch)

Thoughtpiece: Hitting 200!

Well hello again, everyone! It feels as though I was only recently posting about how I had hit 100 total followers on my humble blog here. I had never expected to reach such a milestone as quickly as I did, and yet it seems as though the website has experienced continuous growth since then. It truly is a surprise, but I am so very thankful for everyone that stops by, reads what I put down to paper (or Word doc… potato pahtahto!), and leaves a follow or a like. To the you, my fair visitor, it probably doesn’t mean much. To me, it is an incredible gesture. Every follow is another step towards one day making a living out of my passion for writing. That is a difficult goal to reach, naturally, and I am acutely aware of how far away exactly I am from even scratching the surface. However, I approach that objective bit by bit daily, which is all thanks to those that have supported me and continue to do so.

So, where do we go from here? I suppose it’s important to update my general life situation, as I am currently in a position that complicates my usual posting regiment. I am currently enrolled in my final year of college, with my major being in the education field. Because of this, much of my morning routine is spent instructing students or hurriedly making lesson plans to try and get by in life. It is only slightly (read: absolutely) stressful! One downside of this is that I cannot reliably get my material out on time, and I’m occasionally so burnt out mentally that it’s difficult to engage with writing overall. Essentially, my productivity is being hampered by the unfortunate responsibilities of an extraordinarily tiresome career choice. I’m going to be doing my best to keep up, so I hope you understand if I falter a bit. I’m counting down the days to graduation, where I will hopefully be done with all things related to college and education. I learned far too late that I have no desire to teach, and institutions do a laughably poor job of preparing people to do so. For now, I just gotta push through until I get my magic paper and move on to the next chapter of life.

I am still going to be here and I’m still going to be writing; I just cannot guarantee that it will be as consistent as observed in prior months. These following weeks are going to be a certain test of my strength, which is not even mentioning the fact that what I plan to do with my future is completely nebulous. Thank you all that are reading this for sticking with me through this period, and I sincerely hope you continue to do so! I still keep myself busy by submitting to magazines, tossing out new poetry ideas, jamming to music, and posting reviews, so all is not dire! I’ve also recently acquired a microphone as a belated Christmas gift. Though I’ve yet to use it, this opens up a lot of possibilities for how I can exhibit my content going forward. Considered my background in spoken word, I’d definitely enjoy crafting a YouTube channel to diversify what gets posted, adding a performance element to my works. I’ve never shared a choice few pieces here due to their design being tailored to a live setting, or at least a particular vocal delivery. These could see the light of day if I dive into another large media market.

If you’ve made it this far: thank you again, sincerely. I know I repeat that a lot, but I genuinely am touched by the increase in activity I’ve seen here. It has given me confidence in my poetry that I never had before. Most importantly, it has demonstrated to me that it perhaps IS possible to carve out a niche with my creative endeavors. I’m not naïve enough to assume it’s a sure thing or that I’m really anywhere near such an achievement. I knew going into this WordPress website it’d be a longshot that could easily fizzle out in a few weeks, off into obscurity like so many others before me. But I am going to try, and I have the courage to roll the dice. I appreciate each and every one of you that are along with me for the ride.

Much love,

❤ Mitch

There will be a new poem up in about 2 hours, so stay tuned 🙂