All the Improper Techniques

And we’ve become green in the face,

not from a flowering sensation

that blossoms in shared tongues twisting in spontaneity.

Becoming ever so green in our eyes

when choked back words are rejected

and our stomachs face an upheaval of swallowed back doubt

rocking about in the acidity of uncertainty

now eroding this tangled ground

where we tried to dismiss concern with enraptured hands.

It’s a speak or die silent scenario.

Release the hatches for the overflow,

or refuse to swim as the passion collects its toll.

Leave the door ajar to let the demons out,

or snap the key in half with our teeth.

It could last the rest of the night.

( ❤ Mitch)

Use Their Name

Enough is said about nothing,

dancing about the subject,

enlarging the object

that then directs all and none,

capturing the attention yet captivating nil.


A stray phrase spears as a needle into a bubble,

and swirling sentences suddenly uncover

a mess that must be addressed,

though our collective common sense does stress:

appease against aggressors at the gates.


Fold to obscure where edges lie.

Lay flat to smother the creases,

leaving the problems gasping for air,

swinging swords to whittle at the exoskeleton,

where mere bone and grit mark the final line of defense,

with wits at an end and control absent by its own intrusion.


Our collective common sense,

not yet uncommon to dispense,

forces belief into wounded boys scraped by stigma,

watching an elephant expand,

birthed from the unsaid, unheard, unseen,

though simultaneously the entirety of above,

written away by normalcy in beer cans,

expired manifestos,

antiquated fortresses,

preaching solitude to an empty crowd,

the chairs shattered by the silent thunder of shotgun shells.


Crowded with a collection of ammunition,

lining the counter with pellets, pills, potions,

subduing through surrender,

where a grave marker is nameless to those passing,

but a number to those reading,

proving the knowledge known but disputed by ignorance.


Enough is said about nothing,

dismissing injury as a love letter to weakness,

advocating for the loudest generation of voiceless,

witnessing screams strike in bolded calligraphy,

red tally marks adorning the wall,

counting the nameless that are rendered thusly by circumstance,

but we recall the meaning behind integers.

Faded in monochrome,

the past is more than a graphic’s siren call,

where dots on a page are grander than infinity,

plotting the poor workmanship that supports hunched backs,

using touted pillars to impose a bent knee.


Succumb and subdue through surrender.

Speak softly for fear of turning backs to the sea.

Stay little for fear of abusing a welcome.

Be staid in circumstance.

Be serene in atrophy.

We describe the meaning behind integers,

but the words find the greatest of misdirects are kept close at home.


Toying around the elephant,

all get ill,

none get ill,

and it is true in every view.

Adrift in the wake,

it was as if no one ever knew what we decided to never know.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dead Hope Kids

You crawled out of your shell and cried for the fifth time that week,

cradling the thoughts of departed on a crowded bedroom floor,

wondering if warmth really came from rubbing elbows with reminiscence.

We were sea faring warriors against the waves we made in our eruption,

knowing a collision was demise as depicted in dictionary.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

afraid the rays were the eyes of an appointed god barreling thru the front door.

Seen the newspapers in piles where the dates climb forward

but the frame that lies on the ground has yet to age a day.

Folded over are the letters lost to lovers and friends that wept but had no say

when submarines couldn’t match the depth you discovered

far below the capabilities of the ocean’s dreaming.


“Burn it down,” softly spoken voices called

where the colored dots on the windowsill failed to reach

and teach about the lessons of isolation.


You thought to cut it out was to cut to the bathroom tile,

the gray changing hue with the season as the departed returned with falling leaves,

the silver in the wastebin the dead skin you shaved off,

hoping the recollection tattooed on experience was a volcano’s mountainside;

a flood of water and nature would cover the creases,

easing the trembling,

nullifying the quaking

as you’re still shaking at the stray mention of names or places in photographs.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

cursing wordlessly at statues forever rooted in your field of vision,

and in the moment where we touched,

I knew I would never be where he stood.


The departed hold the line and you’re always afraid of looking past.

The dead have hands wrapped around your ankles.

“Fall into” the softly spoken voice starts to scream.

“Give into,” the voices are all screaming.

The dead beckon you back.

The dead beckon you back.


With legions ahead in the foyer,

there’s no rescue to the side of your bed,

where you’re shivering in the heat of cluttered memories,

and I knew I would never be where they could be,

and you were never going to be the same.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affirmations

I’m off to understand greater the frontier outside of grids.

Tracing road map signs in cursive loops,

the ways winding about geographical decay,

the arts of cityscapes a bleaker horizon daily.

Reading messages in smokestack signals,

convinced of an image in immolated dreams,

I’m left to try again at things that may never make certain sense,

but in the procession of dating archaeology,

an inch nearer waterfall drops in years,

the climb to experience is our single reminder of humanity.

You could have seen the Grand Canyon,

but never actually seen it in your life.

Past Selves in a Future Tense

I burnt down the past self

to fit into my fist;

to shake about in disagreement;

to shudder in its blows.

Captured the ash into amber

and wore it about my neck.

A world removed

made ever closer

as a tomorrow evades

in crimson sunsets resting.

Curled into a remembrance,

futures are but reflections

of a previous wanting

made a widow to satisfaction.

( ❤ Mitch)

Update: Change is a’Comin’

Hello, everyone! It’s been a minute since I posted an update here. Since the last time we talked, I achieved two big milestones: passing 300 followers on WordPress, and then passing 200 followers on Instagram! Small achievements in comparison to what others have done, but for me, these are both very big steps towards making a name for myself. As a rather unknown writer trying to establish himself, the continued support means a lot to me, and I greatly appreciated each and everyone one of you that continue to join me on my journey.

As for what comes next? The possibilities continue to endless. I still want to look into YouTube eventually, hopefully over the summer. This would bring a spoken word element to what I do, which some people have expressed interest in. I got started on my newfound poetry adventure through exposure to spoken word, so it feels natural to return to that arena.

In terms of what else is going on, I will be officially graduating from college in less than a month! It has been a very arduous task, but I am very near the conclusion of it. Ideally, finishing school will open up more freedom in my life than I have had before across the year. Being able to dedicate more time to the website, poetry, and other pursuits could really expand on what I’m capable of. I’m really looking forward to it.

Also, I have officially opened a Ko-fi account! I want to try out new things such as commissions, subscriptions, and other stuff. Many of these ideas are still in their infancy, but the commissions are live! If you would like a personalized poem written by me, you are now able to get one! You can also leave donations if you’d like. I’m thankful for all the encouragement I have already seen; it truly is special to me.

You can visit my page here!

There is also a Support Me page up on this blog.

Much love,

( ❤ Mitch)

The Loneliest First Step is Also the Last

Burned up from a departure

to reenter a grounded state,

a safety net condensed into fragments

disintegrating.

A whisper of history;

the sweet nectar of memory

ensnares delicately,

betraying the sense of suffocating

by these invisible arms.

Billowing from the fan

spinning lazily in an empty room

washed over in the heat of desperation,

it’s heard reverberating:

“you’re safe if you break.”

I mistook phantom limbs as a trampoline.

A basin widens in a crash.

If I were to ever ask

would you put trust in ash,

an answer’s unrequired;

it lies in the fragments.

Scream the Pharmacy Blues

Steel greets its wielder.

Cold precision gathers heat in passionate strokes.

It was some time before the prior return.


Prickling problems propagate perpetually.

The self-surgeon traces anatomy in red lines,

dissecting stray letters from lungs as legacy.

Da Vinci takes the wheel

and the poet is strung up, naked, chained,

bound to the paper once disposable

now imbued with intangible meaning,

with the author holding the keys to the locks to his wrists.


It clears a crowded mind to swipe at the rioting thoughts.

A point’s prodding touch comes as mercy,

what the devil’s advocate would advertise as the antidote,

taking measures in scratches.

Inevitable relapse.


A rubber band snaps at the trigger’s pull.

Half-hearted remedies earn only an eighth of grace.

Diminishing rewards,

increasing costs

form a nascent mountain

erupting from flat ground.

Struggle to the apex on the unforgiving surface,

or strike horizontally against the high road,

cheating by recommendation to the masochist’s fix.

The burn is a worthwhile reminder of humanity.


Between crushing realities of failure and forfeiture,

a handful of red lines never caused a tremor.

A searing heat comes as a comforting friend.


Dull bathroom light’s glow

reads road maps in morse code.

Insert to spell grief.

Hit for trauma.

Pain illuminates itself in a mirror’s shame.

A burn wipes the slate clean.

( ❤ Mitch)

Our Fair Friend Under the Weather

Fraying,

full of fault,

the needle tangled in its own design.

Tugging at the touch exacerbates the holes,

their insignificance poked in across months, unnoticed,

coming to bloom out of the mind’s eye,

where their prior meaninglessness is magnified.


Unravel now to spill it out

or tuck it inside a crowded cupboard

threatening to buckle under its baggage.

I’ll dim the lights so you won’t see the damage.

I’ll shine a ray on the most perfect fragments I can gather,

wipe them clean and wrap them in a bow,

making rubbish into ruby.


If the right effort is swung into,

I can be a Michelangelo’s star,

formed out of rugged birth into a resurrected idol,

never cowering in crowded rooms or sneaking down alleys

in search of a fire escape’s ledge or tantalizing edge.


With my effort placed instead,

I draw my fate up in circles,

where the start is at the impetus of perpetual abandonment,

and there’s a constant loop back into eventual disappointment,

be it by my shaking hand or the forceful one of another.


Worried glances portray a sense of anxiety

that I find myself bearing as a globe,

supporting expectation of a reality where my lungs are stable.

Worried glances are spent far too often.

The last thing I hope to see is for joy to seep out of their sight.


Stay inside the shelter as I march into a storm.

Hold fast on the ropes tying down to home.

Maintain position in the long procession onward.

Waver not from opportunity just to waste it on me.


The snow batters against this world we hold up,

and it’s slipping under the frame thought to be held so tightly.

Stay to drown in biting frost that festers in every day.

Take heed to run and leave one promise:

That as I march into a storm, bracing at the door,

cease thought and commit to action.

Commit to action away.


As I march into a storm, through the door,

I will only be some time outside.

Protect your worried glances.

Retain the light inside.

I will only be some time.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Tightest Grip Loosens When Tested

Be quiet now in this breathing.

A jagged inhale is breaking.

Remain sedate

with folded hands

waiting patiently

for promises to be unbroken.


Still as can be in this smothering.

A shudder starts to reverberate.

Cancel out

in prescription rolls.

A dull smile

the misunderstood warning sign.


Brace now for the disentanglement.

You may not know it yet;

that words

run loudly first,

then so quietly

are realized in true colors.


Steady hold to survive in the ward.

No one calls you anymore.

Many words

speak proudly,

but unmasked violently,

and underneath are broken promises.

( ❤ Mitch)