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 ❤ )
The Works of Mitch Worden 