Settled State

The frantic brush stroke life suits us.

Splattered across canvases and inelegantly scattered.

Toying with the task of connecting disparate strings,

the cluttered becomes ever more so massacred,

untraceable to the eye clothed or rendered naked.

Perfectly exposed is a tendency to decompose.


Palette of unrelated colors mingling,

as we’re extracting from the essence of together’s definition.

Characteristically do I tremble in undertows

birthed from decisions made when caution lashes out.

Desperate to feel and it only breeds haste.

Unconscious by the harmful blows I dealt to myself.


She carries on her father’s habit of disappearing.

He burdens up with a mother’s quieted interior.


Packed bottles line up the living room.

Speak too loudly and the glass might just crack.

Tensions ripple across the statuesque face of youth,

captured in wrinkles and proof of the aging accelerated beyond its date.


Exhausted from counting the loose ends untied;

the brush strokes magnified,

would the painter split the brush in half?

In realizing the pitfalls dotted in as if by design,

yet never knowing the difference between fate and choice,

a sword would cleave straight through,

split into two and the wholes would be bent to whole again

without a common mark to trace to conclusion.


We adopted a habit of backing down from the fights;

from hiding away into a night,

speaking softly to not wake the problems up,

and in fright do we see how in our dreams

they’ve multiplied sky-high to tower over domains.


No white picket fence,

no two-story home,

no place on this earth where our hells are at rest.

No absolute find,

no storybook end,

no resolution where we share the same bed.


Buried below,

concealed so long,

we come to find what we pushed quickly aside.


All the dilemmas that were used at the start

to raise us from the ground and back to:

We are as the same as what we faced

but were too stuck on breathing to notice.


She adopts her father’s habit and vanishes.

He lives his mother’s life and dives into silence.

~

(Mitch ❤ )

Bringing a Gun to a Missile Fight

Details, details;

the chasmic microscopic I’ve seen you lost into.

Travel maps with knife lines

haphazardly making the outline of escape plans.

Embedded in the flesh or mind or otherwise,

the hypotheticals never exit fantasy realms.


I’ll improvise as I go through all of the lies,

no different than the times I covered for each disguise.

Which mask I face today is a Russian roulette game.

Spin the bottle with the melodrama and cross fingers.


The temperature of the room bends at your beck and call.

Rise it or lower it to set preferred benchmarks.

Somewhere above or below am I rocketing to nowheres,

far below or above where a shifting standard sits.


Too close and too far away leaves rope burns to adorn us,

for here it is are we tethered to nebulous experimentation:

Of what could be when the incompatible is forced to compatible,

ignoring the volatility of conflicting atomic structures.


If nothing else at all can be said,

the trading of elements had a certain thrill;

wondering if those eyes will sink me or open up an ocean

and along I swim in search of imaginary lighthouses.

Maybe the rudder was shattered at the starting line

with a fire set in the engine before any motion began.


Yet if I am being honest with myself;

douse the carpet in gasoline and let loose the match.

Close the hatch to ensure I’ll engulf the particles completely.

When my mouth relents to speak it will enshroud us in flames,

glorifying the hideously beautiful entanglement of viruses.


Yet if I am being honest with myself;

the aching bones of desire feed a starving appetite.

Blemishes are makeup to embellish the pointless unkempt.

Tearing out every strand of hair only to feel a thought;

that if you’d do this to me, it has to mean you love me.

That if you’d want to maim me, it must mean that you care.

If you’d let me wilt away in a blaze,

it has to mean we’re to be as one.


It lets me believe I’ve won.

Regardless of the right or wrong.

Maybe I’m crazily undiscovered by you.

~

❤ Mitch

Observed

Augmentation of the overhead lights.

Let the sweat flow

while stood in a crowded state of alone.

An empty room be the coliseum for clashing motives.

Act or reckon with it;

act or hesitate in the street.


The self encased in overhanging lamps,

domineering in their limitless eyesight,

the mind obtuse when consigned to view abuse around every bend.


Strangers do not pass these days;

they linger in each step.

They see ambulance sirens in papercuts,

a push away from clicking away at decomposition,

prepared for the public’s ridicule.


Slink through the alleys but shadows are but temporary,

a comfort disintegrated in circadian woes.

Forced to play fact or fiction in every interaction.

Flipping coins to guess where best to place trust,

but every result hits with the head landing six feet down.


Please shut off the sun.

I know someone’s arching them.

Turn down the bright, wide diatribe.

I hear it in its unspoken tongues,

reading disapproval against approval,

where libel’s dripping in syllables,

Trickling down the artifice until rotted away do I stay,

a skeleton for everyone to tuck into the crevices.


Keep the door closed and locked tight.

My eyes have grown sore of the unwavering light.

~

❤ Mitch

My Sweet Security

Choke on the self-ordained salvation.

Crawling back to ache out of devotion;

a desire to dismantlement in servitude to greater wholes

as this hole uncovers new unexplored lows.

Maintain steady gaze contact to forward motion.

No mimicry; no glancing at another’s paper.

Keep those hands idly sitting by.


The scratch of a knock may not have been there at all,

or the voices on the other side of the locked door.

Claws against rotted wood bid their time.

The confused stoic has their stance in proposed defiance

to forget the state of limbs rendered petrified by circumstance.

Bent on a reliance to brush away rushing quakes,

forget to forgive the failures of history’s conditioning.


Safe and well;

we’ve got you tucked inside this cell.

Safe and well;

We know you’ll never tell.

safe and well;

Make the bed quietly now.

until then

when you’ll spiral out of head.


Engineered purposelessly by arbitrary faults.

Now thusly are consumed every part never of you.

A decade of chewing force-fed falsehoods

leads one to be what they’ve never chosen to feed on.


Imagery of reality is immaterial;

sleight of hand expands the ounces an enemy eye criticizes.

Interaction directs its objective to cyclical deprecation

and ever further analysis of the omnipresent wrongs.


Beautiful is the pain of induced introspection:

To never return home sober; devoid of words to say.

Stumbling about the block when drugged under pity.

The genuine are all snakes dolled up in suits and dresses.

Diving headfirst into the pit is depression’s favorite coin flip;

here emerges broken when battered beyond its bounds,

bitten from head to toe until indistinguishable mass.

Here is where experience is said to come;

Excuse the harm as deserved.

Excuse the scars as earned.


You’ll see more to condemn regardless of the actual.

Too often is it misunderstood;

the certainty was never able to unseat belief,

for belief is deeply rooted and rigid versus truth.


Stay safe and well;

we see every time you fell.

Stay safe and well;

we gave these problems for yourself.

Stay safe and well;

tuck into the privacy of your hell.

Until when

you’ll spiral towards the end.

As was predicted.

As we all saw.

As we all knew.

~

❤ Mitch

A Collective Lack

I awoke to the familiar sight:

A glow discarded;

forever absent.


Unlike most

that inhabit a spinning globe eternal,

what orbits instead is the motionless monochrome,

swarming about as locusts upon the frail.


I rose up with both shoes on the wrong foot;

a daily routine of mounting fatigue

while waiting for a guiding call.

Yet stood in a dull morning’s bright,

I feel no rays

in the loudness of an empty chair.


Coffee grounds,

recycled smiles;

twig limbs to a blaze losing its hunger.

I know it’s far,

far from enough.


Barely held to a thread

that another hand once shared,

until all at once I felt a fabric tighten

in your silent escape to nothing.


What I’d give

just to follow.

What I’d give

just to know.


If I fall slightly deeper,

I might just see your fading glow.

Should I stumble around the rocks at the bottom,

I might just manage to dig you out.


Rather fail to see a sunrise

to avoid the familiar sight:

My corpse of a life trudged into the light

that has become ever so bleak

in your resonating absence.

~

❤ Mitch

… for a drop of blood

“… for a drop of blood”

Sourness is brilliance misunderstood;

or so it seems when the fantastical is robbed of the magical,

supplanted with wayward, youthful idealism.

Broken backs over the coffee table

are the reminders of an affectionate touch,

like a bull’s dedicated horns piercing surgically through the abdomen.


I’ll tattoo these if the scars start to fade,

tracing leaked fluid on pages as cherished mementos,

shedding weight by the ounces of blood cried for loss.

Gloss over in reds and purples to cloak the diminished sum.

Tally up to win when victory is a love letter’s fantasy.

The irrational rationalizes come the invasion of isolation.


Wasn’t it good when everything was good?

Rosey eyes paint flowering depictions of bitter pictures.

Weren’t we perfect when it clicked out of shape;

a frame of scattered objects jagged enough to ever break?


And I held your tongue at the tip of my teeth.

Do we dare to speak and reveal what passion hides?

An arm roughly revolved behind in a gesture of control,

so willingly bent to be at the knee of the beloved opponent.


A voiceless plea cries out somewhere subdued in shallow motions,

stuck between the nonexistent space crafted by colliding motives.

Survival of the most ill fitted to survive

as guaranteed by our mutually conflicting alibies:

The feast is the sustenance on which we preserve

and for which we can justify a lack of loneliness inside

despite the moments when the pangs surge into consciousness

when the onset of realization announces its advance.


Another ride too close to the sun’s arms

while failing to stitch up the singes of relief,

bursting out in sighs that confuse content with conquest.


Placed in front of the promise of voyages to the uncharted,

surrounded by the unrelenting gray that intrudes by the day,

I’d go to hold your tongue at the tip of my teeth

and swallow back the words I actually want to say.

It’s easy enough to lose count of my shattered bones.

One more cracked on the table can’t hurt after all.

~

❤ Mitch

You Blinked, and We Miss It

How and when is immaterial.

The infinitesimal permeates in sleep

when eyes remain open but far from waking,

a vision in slumber wed to transcripts

as rain gently strokes the surface;

the blurred becomes ever more obscured in time’s marching.

Yet the music pounds in eardrums,

supplanting static when silence abounds.


Stray glances burn deep into my desire to disappear from modernity,

examining the smiles I learned to treasure by the time they began to crumble.

This car is destined to halt somewhere.

There are boundaries to where thought can persevere,

locked into the restraints of human fallacy and the irony of affection.


If I held a hand up then to speak;

to infuse into the reality of decomposition,

whether memory would hold dear or falter is a question unanswered,

the only hints towards understanding embodied in the photos never taken.


Swallowed by impressions,

the color evacuating from the light,

what’s left to behold is an abandoned canvas,

the melted ichor of youthful imagery the fuel hindsight acquires.


Drawn up on the blankness is everything to nothingness;

a monument to the mobile immobile,

injecting theatrics to the unmovable past that rejects all advances,

though ever so inviting in the possibilities ever unexplored.

I can paint a road for which the memory can follow.


Departed from the current is where I am found,

chasing down meadows of bright flowers blooming endlessly

as if the sun held the moon in a stranglehold,

suffocating the dark from all edges of this condition of being.


It will never come to reason that the occurred cannot occur again.

Eraser stains only cause the dust of mistakes to resonate,

the murky fringes expanded across the page.

All that I could be then is what I can never meet.


Concentrated solely on the temporal archaic,

I stay asleep with eyes open wide,

willingly unaware I inhabit decayed landscapes,

shaking hands with the friends I wished never left.

~

❤ Mitch

Oh No, Daylight

“Oh No, Daylight”

It could have been there

between the cracks of conscious and unconscious breath.

Somewhere traded in the lips of ghosts,

I’ve traversed a bridge to link wayward spirits.

For a moment in the drama behind closed eyes,

I dress a stranger in vibrant colors

and swallow the rainbow to sustain.


It could have happened out there,

a street passing Infinitesimal to our selfish selves.

Stares only grazed skin’s surface,

the mind never truly knowing its neighbors.

Yet for seconds ephemeral in the bright of the dark,

tangled nothings shed cloth

and drink in the passion to sustain.


A question lingers unsaid

as the cracks in the blinds expose the film.

In the shine of day,

I swear I saw you there

caught walking in the halls.


A thought invades in haste

when transient is seen for what it is,

even when there’s a knock

that I swear was real.


Would you stay or would you drift?

Would you share this fountain

passed back and forth

to sustain?


It could have been there

as she exits from an ear to its opposite.

It could have been there

once the mirage bleeds into desert sands.


Understood in quiet, morning hours,

I comprehend the stranger made confidant in a fleeting touch,

gently caressing the elegance of the unfamiliar.

Is it out of my hands to pull down the allure from the unreal?


Perhaps it is best to forget the fabricated.

Wounded heads speak in screams when isolated to bed.

If only I was able to say goodbye.

~

❤ Mitch

Contemporary Grief

Gray weather reports are out of man’s hand.

The winds shift at an unknown beck and call.

Terror may endeavor to swallow whole,

as too often are we found in the sorrow of others

and the fatigue of attrition wars.


Led by fable to believe one held the world,

one swung the strings,

one dictated the direction of things.

Led by history’s choreography in archaic tongues

to support a roof in flames with two wavering arms,

burns categorized as the earnings of perserverance.

The dust of ground teeth be saved in caskets,

tied up along the windowsill:

The ultimate finality of our diminishing sum.


Here then does the precipice loom between ascension’s descension,

claimed a fool’s selfish dagger misguided,

yet stood in opposition is the antidote to scorch marks;

allowing a roof to realize its cave-in scheme

and release from the burden of upholding the improbable.

In this are we untimely aligned in contemporary grief,

contemplating in consequence to the frailty of folding hearts,

unfulfilled by drained demand,

told to sit still in nervous episodes;

to shove limbs into pockets and contain a raging storm.


Shrouded in conventional mystery,

tiny teeth tombs total the toll of mutual ignorance

afforded to those without soot on their shoes,

clung to by those sitting still for fear of a push away.


The weight is feared,

so none dare to share anguish,

seeing necessity for comprehension as an unbalanced trade

where pain only transfers, merging into one.

The question is illusive,

so none dare attempt to offer an answer,

concealing instead in empty, smiling words and bootstraps.


In this are we secured unlovingly in contemporary grief,

taught to bear troubles in seclusion,

though unavoidably colliding headfirst with the reality of breakdown,

flailing in the changing seasons,

unexpectedly altered in the throes of modern life.


Alone as determined by circumstance,

the weather of the day is seen as a personal fault,

and it is carried alone,

out of sight,

until eroded in attrition wars,

untimely.

~

Mitch ❤

Medicated Normalcy

Exodus of speech to fill the lungs.

Trap all troubles in capsules.

Reveal all down a roaring barrel’s call.


In reflection are we all found,

dispensing tragedy around as if surprised

when silence is prescribed in turning backs and shying eyes.


From the torrents washing above,

cracks will be revealed,

and cracks will be defined as weakness of the mind.


Immersed in clay,

dive below the realization and defy recognition.

Husks are hollowed out for all of us to witness.

Husks are hollowed out for all of us to conceal.


In reflection are we all found,

describing trauma that surrounds fortress walls

communicated as resolve;

stoic, unwavering, imperfect in false perfection.


To wake up and breathe is not a eulogy.

It is the bravery that compels towards unknown lines.

Rising to walk is not preordained defeat.

It is the courage to know the chasing drama knives

and to willingly travel unphased by the scars

to recover from what was never deserved.

Never a fault of yours to find yourself broken at times.


Low as it comes to be,

this is temporary reality.

Believe in the comfort of survival.

Believe in the person that strives without flinching,

sheds the strain of memories in absence of shame,

deconstructing the proclaimed resolve that has made all quiet.


Do not be caught in the prescribed silence.

There is value in life.

There is value in who you are.

There is value in what will become.

There is value in the march onward.

~

❤ Mitch