Spare the Theatrics

Breaking bones for a cause that never earned an ounce of sweat.

Following blindly along because purpose comes attached.

Sell off ambition for the cheap price of a seat in the front row of the ladder’s base,

where the climb is the dream that’s always a rung too far.


Leaping out of bounds earns a slap back in the processional

when a spark incites a reversal in the machine.

Every cough of smoke is another misunderstanding face barking:

“Stay in the lane provided from the conception to the collapse.”

Never mind if the mind was ever ready to comprehend the place it was forced to.

The decision is taken out of grasp, imposed as a foregone conclusion.


It may take time, but don’t submit to the crime of the wicked hands

tugging away at whatever fantasy you spin.

If there’s a chance then it may be worth the fight.

Feast on the nectar of dreams before it starts to run dry.


Not everyone plays sides.

The game is never fair.

Call it rigged or a skyscraper high deck that rockets to the sky.

And along the way it may twist and turn and reveal what you never knew

about the soul itself and comrades it collided with.

Take part to internalize this:

No absolutes dominate the relationship between friend to friend,

or the connection of a paper and a pencil;

the corporate call or the will to strike.


But there’s always time, so don’t fail before you try.

A chance is waiting, distant as it appears.

Tame the fear swelling below and march to close the gap.

Bring a vision to a color you can touch and feel the passion inside

as the chains relax on what holds the spark from flying off.

Bid farewell to that machinery and coast away on an odyssey.


There are many lessons to be taught on who you are and who you should not.

Transition from then into a new now

and play at a coming soon that’s outside the bounds,

several steps from the ladder base,

digging new footprints towards a different lane.

( ❤ Mitch)

Where the Minds Sits, as it Always Has and Always Will

As of now,

nothing possesses purpose.

As of then,

it will become reduced to less.

A conclusion in obscurity is foreknown.

As of now,

its presence weighs as everything that never meant.

I only long for the finality of it all.

Pivot

A past echo reads the eulogy,

traced backed two years to hope’s precipice,

convinced of the promise offered by a faulty parachute.

The pilot threw their hands up at the wheel,

led the crew off at the boarding dock,

watching at a distance debris cannot reach.


Ask any beating heart and the story’s all the same:

human nature is a tainted garden we pretend to never pick from,

trusting the next passenger to properly tend to their duties

until all responsibility has sailed off any reason.


I read the cues set up on every mask,

flashing disappointment over the closest faces,

tipping over any support I had like dominoes off a mountain top,

the pieces slipping through my fingers as I dive to save a voice

before my anchors drift too far below,

and only ripples resonate when I start floating away.


Trust any history and the fables play on repeat:

Blame and fault wrote the books that consider our condition,

penned by the hands that warn others not to trust

but to trust in phrases set from a detached high-above.


The words on every page form a shovel in my grip,

fingers digging as drills to unearth departed friends,

yelling at the relics of past lives.


If our troubles were predetermined and not all of us see the obstacle,

did you leave an echo behind knowing I’d never belay without losing slack?

If we’ve been cursed since molded by the fabric of predisposition,

did you identify faulty machinery and let me sort myself out

when the only tools I had were a hammer and a fistful of nails?

And if our every story was written by the same nature we’re taught to mistrust,

who’s to say it’s not my fault for not seeing signs clear enough,

sucking dry the lighthouse light to secure my wayward drifting

off into the dark,

stubbornly afloat,

but not a single lantern to embrace.


Drifting aimlessly in a perpetual calm

softly spoken in tones of palpable unease.

Judas coasts by on a battered raft, the wooden planks creaking out an obituary.

Ask a traitor’s heart and the answer is unwavering:

whoever’s on the losing end is the one to forever bend,

acceding to the beck and call of the victor,

and no further phrase is written,

the subtle splash of a collapsing vessel a lackluster eulogy.


In the reflection of the surface, I see disciples and outcasts

bleeding into gray,

shifting when I blink,

morphing again if I look away,

and I am just like them.


Deposit my debris as the Roman turncoat,

for whatever footprint is left in the headstone relies on your nature.

I lie at the mercy of those at a distance,

but never knowing if I pushed them away or they shoved me from the dock.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 3

Immaculate are the schematics,

but failure stalks among the details.

Measure the second hand,

mark the precise point of departure.

The lesson is nullified upon the winding of time.


Adding selfishness to subtract the joy of others,

I cannot trust even the neighbor selling lies on the bottom floor.

Operating only on the diminishing flame of insanity

as a tunnel narrows,

the light succumbing to a constricted hope.


Wave goodbye to a doomed voyage.

Accept the resignation of falling short.

Every impact leaves an irreparable dent on this sinking frame.

Sucking dry the flower of optimism bred in by foolish dreams,

it cannot be the fault of yours.

What I would do to hold and console,

allow reserves to crumble into the ash of burnt imagination,

yet trapped in the hell of purgatory may I always be found.


In each relapse to destiny’s prologue,

a flash of red hair sneaks into my eye.

In pieces scattered across fluctuating worlds,

she remains ignorant of how she reconstructs my puzzle.

Reassurance is forgotten in the blink of a condemned endeavor.

She always returns to draw color into blanks.


In every action there have been reasons to abandon,

and through experience I cannot comprehend why anyone would save me.

I only know that a second chain is growing in my depths.


In shadows of self-imposed dilemmas,

crawling from exit to entrance;

a loop straight to a runaway escape,

she always returns,

and I find new strength.

I do not own this image

(<3 Mitch)

Rendered Wingless

She always knew that spring was her favorite season.

Shedding cobwebs in the leaves’ glow she sang:

“This is where I turn over.

This is where the heart begins.”

Scribbled in the edges of a notebook, hope lived out its days,

tracing flower outlines as an anniversary of promises years past.


Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I’m aglow when I see you shine.

I live inside this light.


With fingers intertwined, she believed in different days.

Someday there will be a gaze that sees past simple flesh.

There was no warmth from your address then.

Kept your troubles huddled up in peeling bedroom walls,

projected into images full of faces never known.

Faces that weren’t yours.


Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I’m in the driveway tonight.

I live to see the light.


Pale skin was quaking under suspicion of being found out.

Somewhere tucked away was a sharpened edge made dirty.

Someone was drawing disappointment on those arms.

There were black lakes growing on her back.

And she sang, “that’s probably what I was worth when I opened my mouth,

and I was nervous enough that I needed a punch back in line.”

And I tried to say something rehearsed in a new way but tripped on the memories.

The crows were knocking on your heart’s door,

Banging on for more.


Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I haven’t left you to this fight.

I live to know the light.


With fingers intertwined, she marched to olden days.

The ink on the notebook edges had dried up under shaded branches.

The sun had melted clean and dried up the clouds.

I was tossing stones at the bedroom window looking for a smile.

She was speaking in romantic tones, turning a lying boy into a saint.

And I tried to say it never had to be carved that way into the fabric of your history.

I wanted to reach out and hold a setting star, breathe color back inside.

But she sang, “this is my lot and I will not buckle under any swing.

This is how and where I’ll lay my weary head and I won’t need another’s warmth.”

The crows were clawing at her heart’s door.

Hanging on for more.


Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I’m waiting to see my friend.

Where has she been?


I always knew that spring would be the hardest time.

Tracking trails of dust on a book shelf to untouched reminders.

Brush the age away and her face seems frozen in place.

Hindsight is barking in my ear that I should’ve read the fear.


There’s a marker laid to enshrine the name but I don’t see any of you.

Fading numbers tell a story but they’re short on the details.

The light of you doesn’t shine through and I think I’ve lost the thought of you.

Staring deep into the fabric of your history, wondering why you engraved it that way,

knowing I existed inside that vibrant glow and there’s no traveling back.

Here come the gang of crows fluttering about the rocks.

They’re digging talons into your memory,

hanging on for more.

( ❤ Mitch)

Attenborough Watches with Pride in His Eyes

Circle about the brickwork.

Dart through the alleys to close in on the prey.

Vibrant eyes are a violent girl’s prize.

That pulse is quaking the frame and quickening feet.

“Oh, I’ll get what I want out of you.”


Deconstruct the soul for timber and tinker about the blood,

crafting a refuge to sail above the flood.

It’s a personal ark odyssey, take two of every part of this.

No protest from those lips so push past the reservation.


Go ahead and come on, pounce on this.

I am a fading flower thirsting for a lie.

Go on and use me.

Voice is stripped away; promise I will not sway.


My skin is a flourishing forest to tend to all the need.

Sink into as I sink without a sail to lead.

Fingers flail about for reciprocation hanging in perpetual limbo.

Her smile’s twisting in those rare brushes of acting out.


Scratches sign a map on the small of the back:

The blueprints of desire laid bare for excavation.

It’s shaking my vessel dry, it’s sucking out the air.

Sink into as I sink without and I love the feeling.

That pulse pounds just for me, a cheater girl’s fantasy.

“Oh, I’ll get what I want out of you.”


So go ahead now, claw at me.

I am the loyal pawn, obey everything.

Go on and use me.

I am a starved heart, I’ll cherish anything.


Now there’s a note to nothing left to gather dust.

There sits a lasting message to testify to never meaning.

Peeling away the covers on my faded geography,

scarification mountains a dull red memory,

a deserted boy’s deluded harmony.


Was I too much if I asked for too much?

Was I used up and measured empty?

You liar, don’t pretend it failed everything.

You liar, you remember everything.


Running now just to recall the chase.

Fighting an urge by replacing an urge to replace the streaks.

Slicing at roots for the love of a purpose.

Adhere to the passion never felt because no matter how far you get

it’s the best possible love you cannot forget.

( ❤ Mitch)

Porch Sounds

How did it come to be that the voices of these streets

faded into fleeting recollections of echoes?

Figures once set in place move freely about the board,

leaving traces in blurred snapshots a thousand words cannot describe.

Like shifting clues into place, I’m matching facades to faces,

scrambling from context as memory drains itself to a desert state.


It used to be so simple, so perfectly simple

to find a friend behind every frame.

One knock and the day erupts in motion.

And now it feels so desperate, split across and made separate.

Knocks go unanswered.

There’s no time to answer.


Perching on the throne of metalwork recreation,

we declared ourselves kings of the forest and a second could never age us.

Somewhere along the lines between holding onto youth and expectation,

the cracks opened miles wide and I’m afraid we’ve all fallen deep inside.


Looking upon mud and twigs where grand designs once stood,

staring out into a stranger’s backyard, chasing sounds of familiarity.

How did it come to be we ended up alone

after struggling so hard to reconstruct our disassembled bodies?


Molded by this potent nurture do these drones march to practiced beats.

Punch in the cards, sever the throats, leave selves at the door.

I sit nursing my faulty machinery watching days move without me.

There’s not a name to turn to anymore.

Hereby all are declared null and void—let succumb to black scratches.


If this is the triumph of expectation then only one lesson is to be found,

and there’s just a single story to describe from moving signs.

Spend time wisely, spend time well, but the moments do pass.

You’ll crash down.


Dreams used to be so vibrant in past years.

It was so easy to picture in color.

Let spin the calendar globe and the ink runs dry.

The revolution breathes the words unwanted.


Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

( ❤ Mitch)

In on the Target

Come to find an encroaching storm with vultures in the wake.

Come to find a caved-in complex, left to tend to future injury.

As the thunder rains down beaks to pick and chew,

I smell a rat

somewhere festering amidst the ruin.


Bring down a hammer on the character I play.

Say the phrases so painstakingly chosen to say.

Slither forth, bark your independence, but it won’t own you.

Blank home faces are all we are and we are carried all the same.


Come to find our carcasses enshrined in eager wings.

Come to find an abandoned ship left to aimlessly sink itself.

The water runs from a man-made breach,

and I smell a rat,

somewhere keeping my head low.


Try to run but I’ve got claws buried in sidewalk cracks.

Those phrases so painstakingly chosen to say

will whistle through consciousness in each strained step.

Shift in time but the character you play won’t age a day.

Not in my eyes.


Come to find bones bled to dry and shine in perfect white.

All the same it is ended to be with no regard to betrayal.

Passing through halls, catching a glance,

and I smell a rat

entrenched in the hollow of your chest.

I see a rat

crawling wreckage to wreckage.


Wave your hammer round and round but I won’t collapse.

Wield the weight of vitriol but I don’t shatter.

Lightning bellows from the marching clouds gathering ever closer.

In one strike the vultures spiral thousand at a time.

Shout above the whirl of wings but recognize this:

Push me under, I’ll drag you down.

Push me under, we’re bled empty either way.

(<3 Mitch)

Omnivacant

Parched throats refuse to scream,

drinking the dust from craters,

watching the knives cut the blue out of the sky,

wrapping up the mushroom heads for the new bleak horizon.

Roaring treads is the dominant fashion trend,

parading through the common ruin of immolated dreams.

A stray bark and onlookers collapse on command.

Roll their bones to the floor to pave the path forward:

An infrastructure comprised of bleeding architecture.


And yet palms still stretch to rise above the wake of a ticking clock,

their pain on display, their eyes begging for storms,

a deluge to wipe the slate clean and knock the blades out of orbit.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back with ambivalence.


Painted boards and battle cries

never pierce past blue screens,

but the reach of ignorance crosses over every deconstructed domain.

Find purchase in the soil to double down versus the trauma machine,

but it only needs a simple wave to pull hearts asunder.

The home that screams the loudest is the next to be demolished.


Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

and blank out their eyes.


The march of empty feet still proceeds through the hail.

A procession files neatly into cracked wooden caskets,

as the ones lost to erupting cars find a funeral in the flash.

No justice to claim despite living under this cause,

where there’s a promise of hope and a promise of solace through nothing but faith.


But what of the ones with graves unmarked,

the stones set in place by those using your name?

Their limbs are cracking under layers of earth churned out by this machine,

fingers clawing to reach to the sky.


But past all of this fear and all of this loss,

past sermon and sacred and service and safety.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back, ambivalent.

( ❤ Mitch)

An Abyss Was Mirrored Back

Keep ever so quiet now.

There’s a thought bubbling towards the surface.

Hear it float on the whim of soundless yelling voices.

Keep them ever so quiet now.


The path is wrought with vines.

Collapsed bones manifest in the undergrowth.

A stray dream chases me to the weeds,

forming a home in dirt with soil my warm blanket.

Inhale, relax, let the tender touch soothe,

lest the screen be pulled away and the ruse revealed.

Several fathoms below and still more to come

until there can’t be a ladder tall enough to rise.

These clouding fears are crowding up and diving down,

reversing motion, burrowing deeper now,

searching for a route to overcome,

falling fathoms below and still more to come

until there can’t be a hope great enough to believe.


Content to be without a match to strike,

I may sit here and tally the days away in shadows and silence,

Restlessly tied to the traces that remain

of any desire to grasp for a rung.

Their desperate hands stretch through sinew,

marking their claws and sharpening their teeth,

making skin a cave painting of past mistakes.


Hear them call—climb higher, bring rope,

climb further, be greater.

Subdue, diagnosis, keep them ever so quiet.

See the last rays to peak over the edge.

Convince the eye it’s a trick of the mind.

( ❤ Mitch)