Go Hug a Cactus

Carving a spot in line towards the edge.

Spending time trying to hide inside the cracks,

but the thorns on these weeds wrap around the joints

and this all starts to crumble into the sand,

finding a hand in the company of dust.

You say, “it’s just a cough—it’s a passing phase,

you’ll grow old and over it”—must just be a craze.

Some pieces of candy on the counter, wrapped in a bow,

tagged as a heart-shaped remedy.

Took a piece and five and heard a drifting scream.

I suppose it’s a melody.

You say, “just walk away—it’s the changing day,

you’ll grow old and over it.”

And in the chasm under these eyes, the color sinks,

the whole thing stinks of a self-fulfilled betrayal,

and you’re handing out invitations in the mail.

You say, “it’s only fair—it’s just for you,”

but where the hell were you?

I’m here—held deep and down—

now sincerely holding henceforth:

Wherever you stay,

the places you leave and the ones you remain,

Go hug a cactus and you’ll understand the warmth you lack.

( ❤ Mitch)

Cause & Effect Syndrome

You were awakening.

You were opening.

In the morning I saw you and you were shining.

Through the beads of sweat caressing every blade,

you progressed every test that was placed squarely in the way.

I was caught trembling,

left empty, thinking:

God damn, is this life?

And the kiss of every razor’s edge grew a rose,

painted over,

said you already settled the score against yourself.

Truth is I can’t dictate the heart or mind to concede to changing tides—

unprepared and unable to satisfy this demand:

To be happily pushed and set all aside so that smile can glow.

This is different.

This is insanity.

Torn between joy within those eyes and selfishness—

to be kept in the pocket atop of your chest

so every breath in, I’m burrowing in.

Don’t forget me.

I’m forgetting myself.

The smell is the same—

clothes haven’t changed since the day we first met.

But you laid down a map, traced diagonals in red,

marked an ‘X’ with a swear you’d find yourself there

buried in rebirth.

A retribution,

a return,

to times that once were always settled and at peace.

The mold beckons out for only so many limbs,

so you’re cutting out the useless parts—

and you threw me in.

Am I blessed to attest to the soaring of your spirit?

Or reserved and defeated to be stones at your behest?—

Trampled over to realize this is the best way to see you fully become.

Every force has reaction—

The suitcase leaves me crying.

I see in a mirror years spent burdened with fear

and it’s building a fortress on my cheeks.

You embrace such a crippled, broken frame,

and I recoil in disgust of myself for falling every time.

Yet in case of this love, if science holds weight,

we’re as guilty as gravity.

Take this wordless confession, unspoken in all manners.

Let it go unheard—

in the end, our matter matters only to drip—


replenish this hollow soil.

And in that perhaps I am content.

There’s no purpose to writing,

rambling on and on for a sign of approval.

My shoulders are broken.

They sag in the recess of every lurking failure,

so I won’t let this be another.

Here’s a page from the book you taught me on the oceans:

Underneath all the skin we’re begging “let us in.”

This is pointless—

so motions direct us all away,

protecting the self through isolation.

The Earth always moves and shoves at every corner.

So should we, as you said, discard all looming anchors.

Am I baggage?

Are you free now?

Tell me how do I figure this out

when my only clue is looking in doors you exited through and gauging every footstep.

I’ll assume for the worst that to win I have to lose.

At least then one of us works a way out of hell.

So don’t look back.

Forget me.

I’m forgetting myself.

Don’t look back, forget this.

It’s better without.

( ❤ Mitch)

Natural Aches and Pains

Break my every being into semantics.

All in all, after all, we are components of language and motion.

The mind is the driver, the heart is the fuel,

and with one last glance, I spill out my reserves.

Red and green intermingled in between the interior designs of my head,

wall-to-wall in blacks and whites, defined by absolutes:

The summary of existence when painted through the eyes of conflict.

My departure is a shattered window and concrete floor.

I arrived too late to catch the fire escape,

so I’m twisting my arms and breaking my legs to climb through cracks.

It’s a glorified stumble and crawl, regression towards the mean.

I am destined to be the average of no statistical significance.

The shoes I wear haven’t belonged to me in weeks;

I donated my possessions to the ghost that lingers the halls,

passing along the walkways, adrift in the cigarette smoke,

as passable and forgettable as the wind that exits the lungs.

There’s nothing left but the company of shadows swarming in the corners of consciousness.

They feast on the lanterns and can’t choke on the flame; they’re devoted to demise:

Parasitic beasts all bearing the faces that disappeared from my life,

wearing the memories, taunting the weakness that punctures like needles and festers for hours.

And here they do stay until miles away I’m rushing to shake hands with asphalt and dust.

Hundreds of words wasted in the tones of love and loss.

Passages passed through a tunnel-vision perspective.

Reflections in blameless glass deprived of confidence, the graveyard of countless nights

where the lingering excuse, “This will get better, this too shall pass,”

became as empty and hollow as the red and green outside in the street.

This can’t get better, this too shall remain,

unless I find a way to move beyond my pain.

My feeling for what will be kept behind grows stronger every moment.

So much I will miss and still more I know I need to leave

before I can hope to grow and get over these natural aches and pains.

I got an autograph from a razor blade,

concealed before the window shade,

two scars across a broken frame

to mark my insecurities.

A bandage on a naked wrist

peels at the seams—I can’t resist

when forward is a foreign concept

and grayness is my destiny.

The footprints we all leave behind

will testify to what we find:

That what we love cannot sustain

when what we love brings forth the rain.

I tried for years to deny

the one solution is goodbye.

I put on a smile—it fell apart.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

( ❤ Mitch)

Spotlight Love

Bring forth the line to center stage.

Sweat beads intermingle in the haunting glow.

Should these lights dim and this spotlight love grow,

my stress—should it surpass your test—will amount to greater heights.

Cry out names, meaningless names!

Their purpose decays in a counterfeit embrace.

Cry out names, meaningless names!

We’ll turn to stone in our mutual throes.

A pair of fractured bodies are nothing more than trophies.

Count the casualties on your fingers—the victims are statistics:

The fatalities of our sharpened fangs.

We couldn’t make love, so we constructed it out of gold and cloth

and thought a monument to such monumental failure could add up to cover the faults.

Flourish in the eyes of an adoring a crowd,

then turn around and face me,

abuse the past and weaponize me.

If the blood that runs down these streets testifies to misguided strength,

then “Not to be” it will be,

dive into the troubles deep below the sea.

I am cursed to forever remember shows that won’t go on.

Yearly reviews justify the daily excuse

that the lines on my forearms are nothing but growing pains.

Titles said were senseless, that is true; but when you defined me in romantic hues,

I was compelled to be the landscape you displayed.

Surgically analyzed my outline,

mapped it out on crumpled parchment,

limbs extending outwards pointing anywhere but heavenwards.

No one could say that you didn’t know me—my every valley.

Shakespearian deception: that halo must be proud of you.

( ❤ Mitch)

Raise Yer Heads, Gents, It Can Only Get Worse

What is holding you down on the ground when everything else is floating up?

Philosophy speaks to let go of any Earthly anchors.

I wear my expiration date on my sleeve so what’s even the point

in leaving this place behind in red and white?

Too fucked up to read between the lines or drink so that they make sense.

I’ll embrace the names of my sins:

Regret, mistake, the very worst to ever be made.

Sew it together and it’s the portrait of a man

waiting for the hurricane to engulf all.

When I held your hand, I asked you, “could this be real?”

And you looked into my eyes and said, “it’s too much to feel.”

So I’ll be buying calendars as I wait for nothing to remain nothing,

but still hoping the words you trade are always meant for me.

The greats of our time told us all to stay out of line,

think abstract and teach us to look out.

As my eyes crawl up my wrist and trip over the trenches,

as my body wrestles with the obstacles of curves and edges,

I fail to see a lesson here.

I fail to see a lesson here.

And the last words that come into your head before you are dead,

are that “the mistakes we made, make us who we are today.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Laughing Behind Much Sincerity

Tell me all the stories where the ending never comes,

and keep the torch high as ever.

How long can you keep it hanging over?

Your flames are melting your gentlemen’s mascara.

The chemicals are rushing off every page,

and after all they turn out to be just masks,

no different than the rest of the world and us.

Do the images make you feel so alone?

Maybe dead and stuffed and put in a cage for contemporary gaze.

Subscribe to the headlines and they’ll do whatever is asked of them.

Self-serving meals and waiting in your own line on your own terms.

As it always goes, the circus returns to town,

decked in the flying colors of pink and black.

Look closely, for it all blends in at the seams,

making love and loss, or so it seems.

Smack on a candy-laced smile for the clowns will come to bite.

They’ll fight for the honor of your bridal hand.

Waste no time and strike up the band.

It’ll feel so much better with their warm messes clouding up your bedroom haunts.

Hold your skirt above those expressions of disgust that make-up blocks so well.

And if I bump you in the hallway,

regard me with stories that never end,

and I’ll remind you of the thousands of ones that fell apart,

when you left my room and walked away.

When you left my room and walked away.

( ❤ Mitch)

Shake Me, Ms. Apocalypse

There is a sharp drop straight off into the ocean

with one little stone to play against the waves,

and there’s only room for one to hold their stance,

so naturally we’re both clinging on the fringes.

All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.

Animal instinct takes root at our bases:

Feast or fuck—the fight-or-flight dilemma,

and our wings got in a twist,

clipped by Dante’s wrist to a lower level.

There’s more value in the soil for scorched earth tactics.

Consider us the first casualties of concerted nonaggression,

the tops of these pots and pans boiling over the edges.

All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.

What’s it matter when there’s nothing to lose and nothing to gain?

Sink in your teeth,

claw on the wrists,

struggle for moments of breath above the surface.

A shallow sand grave follows inside each mark that’s made,

so a fleeting grace is worth the cost.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose distress, we’re electing defeat.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose death, we’re injecting disease.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose no more, we never left that fucking rock.

( ❤ Mitch)

Well, if We Don’t Go Anywhere, We’ll Still Be Here

Calm your nerves—this can last for all night.

No destination.

Gliding through locations.

We travel on the power of our troubles,

put together and wrapped under this comfortable familiarity,

distracting from memory

of when one hand was wrapped in the other.

A dance of love flashed in the eyes,

and the curtain fell down some years ago.

Speak not of any of it now.

Just travel.

Burn any map.

With the flick of the wheel we’ll outrun every problem

clouding up our weary heads.

Quiet the worries.

In no time we drift as only atoms,

colliding in the vast space between,

calculating the weight of all things.

Never touch the brakes or fall asleep.

If we blink, we will smash through the windshield of our insecurities.

In a flash we crash inside the sky,

where constellations caress the night,

gently embracing.

Should their courage and their strength descend in our lives,

the blood from the mess will amount to something more than tears.

Whether I believe this or not is irrelevant.

What matters is that we share the same bed.

Drive faster—the morning is calling.

Don’t leave.

Don’t depart.

Should you hit reverse this moment will end,

becoming nothing more than a film reel in the story of existence.

Right now, I just want to live here.

This dream can be shared,

if we only just sit and listen.

Listen to the hum of the engine.

Hear the crickets quietly singing.

And above all else,

tell the reasons why to be alive.

This dream can be shared.

( ❤ Mitch)

By Policy, it is Declared

There can be no more hope, so says the federation.

Tiny cells all unite to pronounce desperation.

Whether personal belief brings this forward, I don’t know,

but split my skull and surely there’s much to show.

The theory of my failure rests deep in superstition:

That someday the parts won’t equal to the whole.

Keep the lights dim and pour on the rain effects,

since I’m out of ways to drain the water from my fears.

If you can build something beautiful, I have to see.

If you have something to say I need to hear it.

If there’s a place you need to be, I’ll be the guide there,

and if you find yourself buried, I’ll dig you out.

But ask nothing about how my heart’s feeling tonight.

I have no inspiration—keep your eyes to yourself.

The steady drum of pen on paper—a monotonic marching band—

just the sound of tedium thundering out.

How could it be to bring all the worst out of me?

The mouth dictates mind but today I have no words to find.

Any string of letters erupting is simply tumbling,

unfurling like a rainbow—the allure that brings you nowhere.

How could it be—you bring the worst out of me.

I dive into your irises and for once feel no consequence.

The confederacy of casual sends danger signals out,

because if I’m falling for this then I’ll break myself again.

Instead, I’m sitting across and laughing away my thoughts.

You said you run on caffeine and gravity:

One kept you moving and the other kept you grounded.

No matter where you leave, there’s a compass back to home.

Though your vision of home has an accent,

mine is familiar, mine is easy, mine is safe.

Give it time and you could crack down every wall,

and for once in this life I’ll live without a shell.

But there’s a reason we wear our shields and don our masks:

Some of us stand tall in a hurricane and others shatter like glass.

When I speak of you, nothing but purity coats the stories I convey,

but it covers for the fact my own tales are in shreds.

I hate the front and the pages, the way the conclusion shifts and sways,

and I hate the way you make me care about myself.

If I was self-aware, I’d abandon ship now,

but I’m drunk off of a crushing feeling in my chest.

To make this easy, send a note about our odds,

and if it doesn’t stack up, I’ll sleep better and float away.

As it is, I’ve already spent too much time stressing

for something that—deep down—will always be nothing.

And maybe it could but maybe not,

and maybe there are too many maybes.

All I know—deep down—is that after all the stressing

it will always amount to the same summation—nothing.

When the federation shot you down, I mourned at the funeral;

not for the loss of friend but the loss of a voice:

A haven where my loneliness was for once wrapped in comfort.

A place so close my lips had almost graced it.

But I did the numbers—if I stay here, I’ll shiver to death.

You’re face-up in your coffin asking me “How’s my luck? How’s this love?”

And on my lack of self-esteem I hereby swear, “not a chance.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Morning Mist

Promise not to laugh until we get home.

I have a word or two to say and I couldn’t stand to see them fall apart.

Please promise not to show a sign of feeling until we depart,

then this all can dissolve into the morning mist,

fading into the fog with all the visions and dreams of this car getting anywhere.

Remember not to breathe or utter a sound.

I’ve spent nights dating my mirror to figure out the right words,

practicing the exact pacing and the precise presentation,

dissecting every line down to the letter and worrying about missing the dots and crosses,

because I think you’ll see through my many little imperfections.

But when I look into your eyes my heart races,

jumping up and down in the caverns of my chest, playing jump-rope with my happiness,

toying my mind with pictures of hand-holding and a passionate kiss,

all of it theatrically staged under a canvas of moonlight and burning stars.

Those words I practiced so diligently become jumbled and scattered in my daze.

What I’m left with is a series of convoluted thoughts only I can read,

like my brain’s handwriting is nothing but a child’s unrestrained scribblings.

As I hand these broken and confused words to you, please don’t laugh until we get home.

And if it’s not to be I can dissolve into the morning mist,

and this can just be one of those things that will forever go unspoken.

( ❤ Mitch)