… 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

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 ❤ )

Fix Me Up, Darling!

Dimly lit

cause & effect scenarios.

Invisible hand guiding.

Shapeshifters of fluctuating fantasy.

Cyclical lack of drama

to salvage the twilight

when the doldrums await in the morning

as they always have and always will.


Escape to an escapade,

disguises handed liberally,

history abused sufficiently,

drained of potential impermanence.

It sits in the bed to wait.

It twists its toes in anticipation.


The doldrums are calling for a punch in,

beckoning per usual.

Dim the lights,

decompress,

and remember the guilt

the moment after the joy.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Update: Present, Future, All of the Above

Well, hello there. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve checked in here, hasn’t it? After attempting to return to my usual posting habits, I lost track of things and inevitably shifted heightened focus to my Instagram habits. However, at a certain point, I would definitely enjoy offering new poems on here on a regular basis. There’s still plenty I have yet to share and many more that I am still creating, so there’s certainly no shortage of material to sort through. What it currently boils down to is a matter of establishing a routine, regaining consistency, and then maintaining both of those factors.

Outside of this resolve, I have a lot of news to share. Primarily, I’d like to introduce you all to a novel aspect of my creating journey: a shop! A few months back, I began a series of drawings with accompanying poems on larger slices of paper. These could then be fitted into a small picture frame for display. I’ve decided to move forward with my initial hopes of selling them by using KoFi’s built in store capabilities. As of right now, four of the eight Frames series pieces are available on the shop tab! Each one possesses a unique poem and drawing, handmade using pen ink.

Secondly, to circle back to my Instagram account: I am nearly at 1,000 followers! This milestone would be impossible without massive support from the poetry community of WordPress and Instagram. I owe my thanks to all of those that have shown such incredible support throughout this journey, as you are all the reason why I continue to aspire for greater things. I greatly enjoy writing, and because I have encountered so many amazing people by doing so, I feel more motivated to push onwards. Hopefully this goal can be hit by the end of the year! That’d be an absolutely insane gift.

To those that still check this website; you are awesome. I know I am very unreliable these days when it comes to getting new content up here, but I can assure you that I’ll get around to it soon enough. A lot of stuff is changing, and there will be further projects to come. Thank you for sticking around. Time to close the year off strong!

~

(Mitch <3)

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)

Did the Forest Ever Grow?

Weapons come undone as a stray glance empties my ammunition.

Armed with rehearsal,

I’m reminded of the cold embrace of insecurity

that possibility pierces straight through

when I dare to place a thought behind your eyes.

An unexplored galaxy lies somewhere out of observation

that no level of telescopic reality can define.

Limited to the infinite thinning tunnel of secondhand guesses,

let reason slip into the wind that sets forward poorly aimed ambitions.


Not a leg to stand on beside the crutch henceforth abused

where I dictate direction to a singular option

based off of the emotion that fails to exit from the boundaries of action.

Flowered sentences sprout the prose the ear salivates for,

ever failing to see replication in how a step forward equals a step retreating;

a wanting hand receives no return;

a plan to silence the silence nullifies all sound.


It’s turbulence in nothingness

with the apparent dismantled,

relishing in manufactured revelations

only brought to form in twilight telephone calls with loneliness on the line.

It’s a sign to be uncovered in quieted inquiries;

the understated aftermath of a carefully unbalanced conversation,

artfully articulated yet blank enough for distance.

It’s a sign to hear in music that screams connected names,

yet come the inevitable skips on wax, I’m fumbling to justify

how your little details are but the sum of their parts

and the tale they spin is what I use to fulfill the empty spaces.


It’s all I already know but refuse to truly know,

and now having sights set on the unsubstantial incorporeal,

I craft adoration for the invisible,

constructing ghosts out of deceased concepts,

living a forever pretend story immersed in allegory

where the meaning I placed into rehearsal relies on what you would never do;

what you would never say;

what you would never see;

but what I’ll always try to make,

for it’s the best I’ll be able to take:

A petrified crutch on a maimed limb.

It won’t last much longer.

~

( ❤ Mitch)