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

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

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 ❤

Model Citizen Living in a Model Town

Here comes the fall down.

Lower the body finds itself,

ever further than prior reaches,

in ceaseless descension to bottommost echelons.


A decline to rockier bases,

fistfuls of gravel for fruitless climbing to discover an edge.

Disheveled surfaces reduced to window dressing.

Sharp intonations of agony at the behest of jagged crevices

are the cushions at the end of a day’s struggle towards the dawn’s glimmer.

Wounds proceed unreconciled,

but a facet of reality of regions beneath,

unable to be noticed as more than a breath’s absent purpose.


Braced for the cyclical tumble wrapped in self-pity,

post-it note therapy,

ugly coping weapons to pave over discard,

the burn of asphalt solutions an unclean reunion at trauma’s doorstep.


Awake in awareness of a faltering glow.

Depleting sustenance births serrated ideas

sliding hacksaws along a troubled staircase winding wherever else,

never attainting anywhere else;

a regression to starts that never truly begin,

and endings accelerate to their rehearsed consequences.


Serrated ideas impose a warforged hold,

prowling the lanes of asphalt solutions,

shuttering infrastructure that desperately cloaks shattered frames,

stores emptied of reserves in a cry for rationing,

all the brightness cascading to a familiar background bereft of aspiration.


It concludes to commence again.

In this, it is a failure of being.

It is an acceptance of the mediocrity of normalcy.

Off to experience sunsets in negative;

A failure to live.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Grave Gospel

All hail to the pyrrhic vitriol.

Invest in the injection of independent venom.

A high’s temporary grace in bitten ankles,

breaking the arms of armistice in bombshell declarations.

Arguments versus the severity of uncertainty,

imbalanced by bridge diving ideals.


All thanks to the victory of circumstances,

Appeased to the inglorious made glorious.

Induced into be the imaginary reality

where harm relapses are the savior kings.

Cede away the necessary corners to imperial greed,

the self deconstructed imprecisely.


Away to the current light of day.

In slumber now inside the drugged past,

prancing about dreamscapes alien to actuality;

a happy factory prison given false meaning

in the decaying light of dead calendar years,

the best parts repeated to ignore the faults.


Amen cried for the scrawled trails.

Deliverance arrives accelerated beyond time.

Purpose is a six-foot ditch of unmarked renown.

Understanding comes through necessary silence.

Continuation be met with conclusion.

The self destroyed quietly.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

She Will Be Next

Snake ropes operate as vines around an estate.

Inflicted are the faults.

Inflicted are the flaws.

Strange, the way disease becomes our medicine,

diagnosed in scribbled notes and urges for the masochist,

embroiled as we come to be in the fiction of reality.

To find screaming solitude in crowded rooms;

boundless exile read between the lines of forced empathy.


Without a day to live in the shoes of another,

how quickly it comes to be that we reduce ourselves to atrophy

in a seduction by a remedy conflated with the irony:

That which is held behind the shield is what plans the fatal wound.

That which is ignored in the unspeakable clatter of bottles.


Is it inadequacy that plagues the mutual condition of predetermined graves?

Swerving memories collide into the present reel;

trauma’s swinging wild in the blurs of trust and liars,

where all the same are reduced to those to bear the blame.

Is it the guilt of the survivor, clutching to reminders,

collecting cuts from a paper trail of marked wrists and circled calendar dates?


Inflicted are the drifters,

abound in life, placed in a mind unaware,

seeing only the passing glimmer of the model citizen,

losing sight of the dim interiors where the paint peels at the edges,

presenting a structure splintered at the hinges.

What more but another day losing to the struggle,

time blended under moon and sun as if neither rose or fell.

Shifting weather forgets the fair friend under a depleted atmosphere

where clouds are the sky’s absolutes,

and the ebb and flow from rising to sleeping comes only in resolute grey.


Among us all are we all that see the absolute alone,

steadfast in the worry of showing too deep into the bone

where the sad secret of holding on to tomorrow is but a thread of marrow.


To navigate by a landmine society,

it seems strange when the explosions resonate;

a shockwave per decimal shaved off,

concealed in black dresses and shuffled eulogies,

prayed away until another wanderer is pushed to demise.

It bites until being is consumed.

The urge astounds until it crystallizes in weariness,

uncomfortably understood,

betting seconds away as a clock’s hands unceremoniously expire,

as we all find ourselves out of time eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

distance is fondest

diet affection

in throes of malpractice

since the new arrangement

tried in the jury of our ill judgement

and ushered out the door hastily,

now knocking aggressively.

could perceive the volume increase

even with flies exiting our minds


in and out of our mouths,

sewing the distrust revolving about.


false truth and four truths,

or pick the harsher route.

no better than Russian roulette games.

don’t spot the difference between lies.

every move improvised during destruction or construction.

save the dramatics for the newer arrangement.

tell me it’ll fix things for real.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Sprint in the Stillness

Engulfed in constancy.

The unwritten intangible

prods at pillars.

Flesh trembles at verbal shells,

sawing courage into dust.

Widening eyes versus narrowing trails.

The aggressor blinks last.

A dropped guard at an ill time,

victimized by decision,

in reverberating consequence for indecision.

Dissolved views,

elusive to grasp,

careening for the gutter.

Crumpled paper ideas.

Bravery reflected in razor packs.

Be it only temporary in sleep,

disequilibrated through conversations in comatose,

grinding teeth restraining a nerve,

dropping weapons for rest.

In this stasis,

rendered obsolete in status,

hemorrhaging to spite paper bandaging.

In this stasis,

all dreams stagger.

Poor reaction of careless construction.

Shine dulled in rust.

True indication of complacency;

a conclusion presumed.

~

( ❤ Mitch)