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

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

Buried, Unburied

Here comes the familiar shadow,

on schedule for temporary malfunctions.

Stepping off the dock with purpose in relaxed steps;

a rehearsed motion to proceed into deconstruction.

The same greeting at the doorstep.

ushered in to sit and stare off into the back of my skull,

laser-like precision undermining defenses,

leaking out the lies of positive mindsets

drying on stained linoleum next to yeast lakes and small mistakes.


Shake hands to reach agreement;

let the nadirs inhabit the page again.

Swipe a pen left and right as a dance held by a string,

playing puppet master over trauma that dictates how it roves.


It’s all too common to shatter routine’s grip.

A choking grasp is too frequent to voice objection,

but a lover’s hug that shows meaning

and the reasoning behind the screaming quiet of the room.


Open up for the familiar shadow.

Notebooks strewn across without weight to bear it down,

be it metaphor or literal or caught between,

convinced of the veracity of harm when asked for,

but unsure why it’s requested beside an opportunity to thrive;

to catch the spotlight upon the crude language of my wrists,

placing all hope onto a fragile medium

where slow suffocation is a destiny

and I’m losing the argument against it.


Welcome the familiar shadow as it arrives.

Patchwork prose is enough to clog the blood.

Unleash the limitations and the reoccurring thoughts will leech.

Cross fingers and believe it leads to peace.

~

❤ Mitch

Rerepeating Repeating Repetition

Another story.

Another wound.

Another tale to tell deep into 4 a.m.,

drunk off

sleepless nights

laboring to pull down reservations.


And it’s all to be said in the loving timbres of support

as wandering hands tangle up thoughtless limbs,

terraforming through passion to avoid paranoia’s suspicion

where a mattress is a makeshift cage.

Holding onto the bars, wavering between worlds;

a swan’s descent from an edge to a mangled mess,

or a prisoner’s acceptance of unfaltering circumstance.


Pinned down.

Chained unto.

Call it inspiration in broken bottle prose.

Subdued to

restless days

marching in the mire of melancholy.


Empty the dark into a collection of ink droplets

and weave lines into lies for self-medication

when remedies and white coats trade lies for a prize.

A reward for isolation’s motivation

by severing all ties deemed useless,

preparing for future ruins on distant maps

where perserverance ends in jagged shipwreck shores.


Sleep and slip away.

Rise to write the same.

Sleep and see no different.

Rise to write until the writing is off the walls,

wiped bare as emergency blares.


Tune out the noise to inherit depression’s drama.

Tune out the noise to greet the conclusion of a cliff’s bottom.

~

❤ Mitch

Spiral! Spiral! Spiral!

I’m an explorer for what I want to know,

yet perceiving only wrongs in glances and sentences.

Here sat at an impasse between your realities

as I choose demise between falsehood and aching truth.


I rely on you to say

If there’s explanation required behind masks

or the expressions are exactly the whole of their parts.

I’ll be sapped at command in waiting rooms,

transferred to accompany your loving indecision.


Waved hands beckon to everywhere nonspecific.

I long to uncover the somewhere I find in you

when I swear a shine hits a gaze a certain way,

sparse enough evidence to hold steady the art of fantasy.


I rely on you to say

if this conversation tone is steps closer to rest,

or the sound of an abating echo discovering oblivion.

Maimed in self-throes in tangled motivations,

I’ve but traces to affection buried in dried blood,

writing judgement across for what is and what is not,

neither seen in an eye beyond mine.


The butcher’s hand is my own device

to excavate the best as if to stave off a flooding ship,

laying to the floor until a skeleton remains.


I rely on you to say

if this is the beauty I’m meant to portray

or if I wasn’t even noticed in flesh or otherwise,

proposing prose to the concept of you,

never attainting the attention of the person,

but the act ahead of actuality.


To make a judgement call off of emptiness,

I’ll improvise our interactions.

The nothingness is enough to savor me

as it drains me further still.

~

❤ Mitch