The Loneliest First Step is Also the Last

Burned up from a departure

to reenter a grounded state,

a safety net condensed into fragments


A whisper of history;

the sweet nectar of memory

ensnares delicately,

betraying the sense of suffocating

by these invisible arms.

Billowing from the fan

spinning lazily in an empty room

washed over in the heat of desperation,

it’s heard reverberating:

“you’re safe if you break.”

I mistook phantom limbs as a trampoline.

A basin widens in a crash.

If I were to ever ask

would you put trust in ash,

an answer’s unrequired;

it lies in the fragments.

This Will Self-Destruct

Would only be


a fleeting fix

to make


with the

worst side of self.

Could only be


a subtle taste

to facilitate


along to

the demands of nil.

Should only be


a frantic dance

to alleviate


in the stress

of my triumphant worst side.

( ❤ Mitch)


A disconnect imperceptible


Quiet atmosphere under duress.

Suppress, suppress,

try to impress the mirror.

Sideways glares say “you’re nowhere near.”

The separation infinite.


Snarled nerves violently untie.

Deny, deny,

speak to life every lie.

Distant shores murmur “you’re even further from gone.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Obstacles & Obstacles

Fire and brimstone take the wheel of imagination.

Let the devils claim the hindmost of the ensuing turmoil.

Shaken at a crumbled conscious’ failed foundation,

the saints come marching dressed in decades-old clothes,

not a day aged since captured in memory’s stone,

committed to fantasy where demons are blessed friends,

true colors henceforth cloaked in rosy-sweet prose,

thus shifting the villain to that of the writer’s own hand.

Two halves are made split between hope and concrete,

Rodin portraying agony in its barest form of observation,

with opaque faces aligned on an opposite shoulder

cast as the Greek deities to lord over tragedy’s incessancy,

aglow in marble’s beauty—a philosopher’s Trojan Horse,

for the most dependable and clearest of the given moment

never fail to be those to draw blades foremostly,

sucking dry the emotion host to reap rewards of attachment,

as the carcass is forgotten under decades of clay.

Two halves be split between a reality’s curse and wistfulness,

wishing traitors to be the friends promised prior

or at the least a lesson from which to grow as a redwood,

taller and stronger to fight back against an axe’s blow.

Yet the curse of reality dictates learning is never guaranteed.

An education in trauma comes without certain victory.

The Greek deities of melancholic prose or hateful poetic rants

come to the forest armed with bulldozers aplenty.

Caught in a divide where fractions of being are cut cleanly through

and neither perspective can be known to the other,

ensuring nostalgia will reign over insecurity’s sprawling domain,

and two halves be split to never adequately meet.

Ebb and Decay

Static in motion

                yet kept so still

                                in illusion of

                                                a form of progress

                                illustrated thusly in

                scattered carpet lines

wherein a kitchen blade

                was poking holes

                                playing pretend skin

                                                with a hunger for flesh

                                that plays its hand

                                                at a game of resistance

                                                                ebbing further cliffside

                                                                                until a precipice glistens

                                                                and a prey’s eye

                                                turned hesitant killer

                                catches a stray glimpse

                and a dormant compulsion

discovers a rebirth

                with maroon dreams

                                and dances with razors

                                                plotted delicately in fantasy

                                                                as spun by desperation

                                                and concluded as solution

                                                                by migration from the floor

                                                                                and jagged worry marks

                                                                towards definite indefinite

                                                                                outside of conscious bounds

                                                                                                where motion is irrelevant.

( ❤ Mitch

All Day in Virtual Pompeii


stood here

with emptiness

in the space of this

cracked hole of a maw

contorted to a slight smile

as it silently puts forth a plea

to be filled henceforth to the brim

and never drained of the sustenance,

capturing it as a permanent prisoner of cold,

to law low in atria as a gentle stream of magma,

singeing softly in blackened crevices made vacant,

for the air cluttering veins is a jagged voice of smoke,

brewing nonsense without a sense to guide proper course,

simply leaving a lingering loss that expands to block out organs,

a mass glacierized to where only passing assurance is a temporary high,

though depleted slowly and softly in barren, blackened crevices,

extinguished come the morn after when the river runs dry,

drained out in a bathroom sink to purge regret’s pull,

a crooked mirror’s eye winking through its cracks,

aware of a lack of any self-aware quality to spot,

hid under worry’s scar and penciled freckles,

marks only apparent after hesitation,

made too obvious in a judge’s gaze,

for I’ve appointed this to you,

hoping henceforth at now

in this cracked-hole maw,

you’ll fill the blank space

in twisted tongues

linked here,