Unfortunate, to be the Fault

To fail forwards on a single message,

I am wed to be at beck of your convenience,

my expectations consequential to your command.

And in tracing steps in rubble,

no footprints match your own in dust and discard,

as if I were but a passenger to this obedience.

Outlined in rags is where my reflection lies

when understood in the veins of your demand,

crawling to craft snow angles out of fragments.

Failing ever far forward for futile fables,

I am awed by the absence of convenience

when my own messages are unheard.

Another Audition for the Role of the Antagonist

Spin the wheel.

Patiently await.

There’s a clip of silver bullets tucked into a winning slice.


Wash those weary eyes.

Give it another go,

with inquisitive eyes shining down a microscope’s narrow focus.


I can feel searing overhead lights drilling a hole in my shields,

unburdened as I’m strapped at the ankles,

floundering above the waist while tilted down a bottle’s throat.


Spin the wheel.

Patiently await.

Hand me a magic gun for the vampire in my chest,

sipping on the fluid that pumps thoughts through gates

where a Dracula sits as a guard to synapses,

wine glass in his hand while striking up a rebellion along the train tracks,

any passing note of optimism careening into a widened pit

as inquisitive eyes narrow their faces,

direct out finer lies to conquer races,

serving pats on the back for another husk down the rabbit hole,

tripping along a hamster wheel with a reaper at the rear,

looking for a habit to instill;

a hope to steal.


Uncertain shuffling.

A mind muffling.

A dose increasing.

But all I want is to be free

and meet who I’m told to be.


Slide over a glass of nerves.

I want to have what my mind deserves.

All I want is to understand how I’ve come out of bed,

each year on a wrong side,

no matter front, back, left, right,

never finding a prescribed light,

cramming moods into a jar cluttered with impulses

and the tools of negative compulsions.


Slap a strip of tape over a tsunami’s door,

trying to will oceans into a time out corner.

They’re lapping up to my toes,

granting knowledge of impending throes,

loaded and cocked back in a plague doctor’s syringe,

irises blank as a leech and teeth of a tiger,

gauging a prey from the stumble of their gait.


Spin the wheel for a chance to feel.

Spin the wheel and make another deal.

Don’t forget to keep up on the bills.


I would never be me and I’m giving my best shot at it,

aim stuck at the ground,

firing blanks into soil to shovel off the dirt

and prepare for what medication has started.

I could never be me and I’m giving it my best.


Don’t worry; I’m over it.

It won’t last forever.

Say prepared goodbyes; I’m through with it.

It can’t last forever.

( ❤ Mitch)

Choreographed a Step Out of Time

Take me to task on the chin,

whispering “what do I owe you?” through chipped teeth.

I’ll tend to the debt I’ve incurred,

reset the balance that’s brought you swinging

if only to keep the calm when you’re around.


Drag me aside to scream my confidence away,

blaming for what I’ve owed when my pockets are empty,

but I leave feeling full of liability.

Break it down to paper and the parallels will defy themselves

for the signals I’ve positioned so to pour on your pride.

That’s the story that’s told for when I sour your insides.

Must have been a fault of mine.


This room becomes the surface of the sun in a poor glance;

a wasted chance to connect

turned to a faded memory to file away in our biography,

the ending typed into the beginning and repeated every page,

but I felt something different in the first sentence,

and when I fumbled over the punctuation and delicate language,

I called it nerves in the presence of a praised critic,

their beauty demanding performance akin to Hercules,

slaying that which came in the way to prove an unself-worth.


The time when you bent me over the t’s and the spikes of the i’s,

I called it a pleasure to be in the arms of a grace,

sensing attachment never picked before,

guising the aches in my veins as a bond to fight for.


Coming into myself means coming into you,

and I shake in soaked clothes from a redirected storm,

bruised lips asking “what do I owe you?” to a brick wall.

Indifference shines back.


It feels like the best bad dream,

in the presence of an absent hand,

hoping to earn its fingers.

The only cost is whoever I am,

left limping off to sunsets without a triumph to blare;

only the impassive sun’s glare.

I call it a love and all I’ve managed to deserve.

I’ve only ever wanted to call it a friend.

( ❤ Mitch)

Setting Fire to the Scenery

Convulsing in the grip of something greater than an urge,

writhing behind the wheel,

turning serpentine in an open field,

burning tire marks on a path well worn by engrained skid marks.


Diagnosed, taped to a board under labels

that claim to have an inside story,

scooping out the grey matter,

picking at the crevices to measure a tree’s age in pain.

Each indent comes from when a hand was sneaking in,

leaving ink blot maps on the canvas of the hippocampus,

adjusting blocking for a reel starring only us,

slicing through facial masks and tacking on a moment never found,

yet placed on repeat as a figment of reality.


Each indent is a different string with ill intent,

rolling out from another puppet player’s spool,

commanding the Nutcracker on an unending show,

no curtain call salvation to be brought from tugging the rope,

for the allure of a fable whirls through seasons of shine and snow,

ignoring the when and where of staging,

turning serpentine in an open field,

burning tire marks where several ventures have spun out into the wall,

knocking down oaks in a row,

their insides made of foam,

a hardened skin belying a vulnerable fabric.


The temperature is blazing in the midst

as the smoke lingers for days, unchecked by observation.

Wrap the fires up in a blanket of oranges

and try to beckon an urge to sleep with words chosen to believe.

Pluck from the white house another several labels

until one is found that falsely satisfies enough,

shifting a spotlight’s stare into an opaque perception,

an army of clouds billowing out of discarded exhaust pipes,

marching out of time to a cause changing on the daily.


A single stray breath blows them all away,

yet their scent instills a sense of solution,

praising eureka for emerging from the bedroom,

managing to rise to a distant sun overbearing in its meaning,

to be found in the night drained of theater and collapsing.


It’s written with the pen that soaks its lifeblood from remembrance,

drawing collisions in Carthage on torched fields,

replacing blood with salt to spur all to wither:

The weeds, the roots, the cast of the game,

emptying a dais for a lone speaker to remain at the helm,

no audience in sight beyond a glass frame

shining back a picture of barren highways lined up with abandonment.


Miles along and miles further,

an end never appears to the processional.

Miles along and miles further,

I’ve yet to get past the curve.

I’m always behind the curve.


Miles along and miles further,

I’m the first call of a wayward urge

unloading shotgun shells in a glass cathedral.


Miles along and miles further,

I’m never past the limits imposed by my wrists

and the thoughts that slumber on entrenched dead skin.


Miles along and miles further,

The stumble and the struggle are stalwart:

Always in front of me, pushing me back to where I started.


Miles along and miles further,

I’m never past a plunge.

The height serves an unwanted urge.

( ❤ Mitch)

Where the Minds Sits, as it Always Has and Always Will

As of now,

nothing possesses purpose.

As of then,

it will become reduced to less.

A conclusion in obscurity is foreknown.

As of now,

its presence weighs as everything that never meant.

I only long for the finality of it all.

They’re Playing Kaufman at the Theater

Behind the camera’s eye I’m

writhing in this capsule I’ve twisted shut and

trying to sprout by hanging on the memory on the edge of your lips,

pretending a lingering taste means more than waste

and not just the bitter candy written off as remedy.


The sourness is a familiar legacy that

splashes over rays of sunshine, but

never pierces past a barrier of clouds,

reverberating off of the raining troubles while I’m already a foot under,

breathing in water for air,

drinking up defeat to weigh my bones down to sea.


Reflecting off the tomb of this pool I see

locks of hair arranged for a movie scene,

illuminated by that star I appointed to you

that you never really earned.

In depths below, twenty-three fathoms or so,

the warmth of this image survives any effort to replace.

I call it comfort but end up waking up shivering

in the cold knowledge of your touch

and the lies inside of your fingernails.


Called again

the room inside my head

where I know

you are wide awake.


Mine the mascara dry and I

am unsteady on hands and knees when

I mistook happiness in a counterattack over the counter,

whispering convincing untruths to bluff sadness,

and hope the scars don’t shine on film.


Tally marks remain lined up

to be the sentries that are

circling the thought of you,

their razor fangs barred to preserve a rotted fruit.

Teething on a numbed joint and

I swear it looks like rays of sunshine

pouring from the torpedo hole launched into the boat’s belly.


Gave Carey a thought and drew concept,

but came away empty when

reality and fiction ceased to blur in the family photo.

There’s still a clementine rooted in the pit of my stomach,

leaking a sourness into my senses.

I call it comfort but always rise while shuddering,

having felt the electric charge of your touch

and the lies inside of your mouth.


Called again

the room inside my head

where I know

you are wide awake.


Stuck again

dwelling next to your bed

where I know

I can never leave.


Try or fail

I am always drifting

straight into those rays of sunshine.


Snagged in the tendrils spread out from the image

as what I am and what I claim to be never intersect,

lost in translation in antipathetic arms.

I’ll turn to stone in your portrayal of my self-worth,

having never been good enough,

and now never good enough for myself.


Watching the waves wash in and out of the room inside my head,

hoping for a high watermark to take it away.

In any ending, I’m always up at night,

shivering.

( ❤ Mitch)

By the Numbers

Flirting with idea of it.

Conversation to consider it.

Sketching out the aftermath,

making judgement calls with long-term division.


Adding the right components to comprehend the feeling,

playing chicken with an urge that has its gaping maw open,

whispering sweet promises with its rotting teeth.

The mailbox is hosting dust in a forgotten corner.

No one purchases tickets to a sinking ship.

Wanting to love a soul daring to approach,

but the sea floor has been cleared for the collapsing.


Approving the ending.

Accepting the isolation.

Memorizing the phrases

to line up the expected paper trail.


It will be a logical loss for me to bear,

but I swear I’ve done the numbers and there’s no need to care.

There’s only one man that needs to step over the edge,

and down with him goes the baggage you’ve all tried to carry.

At the bottom of every rift the memories will sag under the plates of being,

as the fabric of every life transforms,

ending up in a place they weren’t at before.


I was the flaw in nature’s plan,

sticking my wrist into the wheel to grind future to a halt.

I’ve gotten tangled up and used the pain as a crutch to justify my self-abuse.

If the edge is near and the mast is dipping below the surface,

it’s the only answer that makes a shred of sense:

Subtract that which holds you back and become greater than you were before.


Trust in the soundless slip to silence.

Eyes are never upon me.

Keep their stare on a future.


Trust in the soundless slip to silence.

Eyes are darting away.

Avoid the perpetual drama.

Trust in my soundless slip to silence.


Eyes are

away.

Trust

as it slips

to silence.

( ❤ Mitch)

As Justified by Fallacy

Spare a moment.

Stay sleepless this eve for one time.

I’ve exhausted all recommended remedies

and any cent that could be dropped for a call.


Have a second aside.

If for a passing space in the progression of our trajectories we may cross,

I’ll complete any labor to secure your forgiveness.

Made driven by a lingering madness,

the innocence that buoyed my ankle to Earth was severed,

and the simple truth of another’s gravity was pulled away:

a tug at the cloth that kept me composed,

now spilling over the fabric as shards and fluid illuminate the split-brain life,

never properly in sync without a sun to dance for.


Spare a moment.

Hang on the wires for the siren scream.

I faced the prospect of emptiness and not a laugh emerged from the tapestry of lights.

No consent or contest was challenged as an undeniable absolute dared to be questioned.

Shivering in this cold leaves me begging for smiles that aren’t there.

Faces that swim in and out on a whim,

never present in a room present with me,

lacking form and emotion to provide any sort of knot to ground me.


Spare a moment.

This is when I need the you of the now,

not the you that’s already past when you come around for me.


Pry me off of the sidewalk.

I’m just dreaming again.

Body is resting on industrial soil.

Brain is stuck climbing several feet higher.


Peel me off the walls,

I’m just wishing again.

I flick drama at a canvas and damn it to silence,

kindling a hope that you’ll peek.


But you’re concentrating on blinking.

Each eye and ear are shut.

I’ve lost the signal from my interstellar radio

as I’m drifting off to a supernova star.

Is it purely mathematical to depart from a ship that sinks on any blueprint,

or did you spare a moment and simply find me lacking?

( ❤ Mitch)

Infinite Happy Endings

Back in the far reaches pretended to be extinguished,

there’s an itch notched in the back of the cranium.

Shake at the thought when the pinch is close,

bouncing to and fro between closed eardrums.

Isolate the aspect and dissect the process.

Blanket over kitchen items with cherry-colored candies;

Sour as they slide, no sweetness in the mind.

Choke an apple a day; no more no less

to smile the treatment away.

Watching the worth of a waistline increase,

but the plague of fatigue steps in tow.


Stuck in a tailspin described as an allergy.

It will pass and no trace will remain,

much like the remnants of wreckage cascading from a crash.

Tendrils of the rift swallow to irrelevance.

Hold no clothing nor possessions nor fellow hands nor brethren.

Kept in nadirs never seen and never visible,

there’s never a smile that’d remain in a torn breast pocket.


A leaking heart wears itself too blindly

and pins dust on its veins to try to clog the cuts,

binding discard to discord for makeshift warmth.


Back in the far reaches laid bare for personal doubt,

there’s an itch notched in the back of the cranium.

Blanking out on another nostalgic drug,

swearing names out that have become dead to mine.

Wrap up the torture in cherry colored bandage,

shine bright to the dark, shut the courage off at dawn,

call the lingering instance of light a process.

Swing the head back and load up the magazine.

Cock the loaded trigger and spout out singsong.


The taste of each phrase sleeps sour on the tongue,

dripping ill optimism to splatter over pessimism.

At the first sound from the morning alarm,

dress for success to utter nothing new again.

Dripping ill optimism to splatter over pessimism.

Infinite happy endings all concluding to nil.

Caught in the tedium and subsequent delirium between closed eardrums.

Slide it back and sense the bitter bite.

No coat of armor blocks an attack from inside.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Product Nears its Expiration Date

What do you think you’re doing crawling out of your box?

We tucked you in so nice and neat,

cutting pinprick holes into this carboard shell just so you’d barely breathe.

Through each gap there’s space enough to cram through enough to satisfy.

Chug down the dose, the hope, the realizations, and call it even on the day.


Categorized, stereotyped,

we’ve drilled a label into your abdomen.

Ostracized, paralyzed,

accept the placement provided.


Do you want to be mad?

Who do you think deserves a wayward pointing blame?

Do you want to be mad?

Who’s the target?


Slash out when a sad man approaches and scratches sprout from your knee.


Analyzed and monitored and pushed out with an assurance and guaranteed debt.

It all seems as though the puzzle was figured out.

This is where you’re meant to follow along.

Do kindly fold your hands together in the face of diagnosis.


So you want to be alone?

You said you couldn’t bear the thought.

So you want to be alone?

How about you stay alone?


And we stand back to watch you toil as you twist away in a cage,

built for you and made with material you provided.

Context is the content of the gray matter that’s been mined empty.

Scream at a blank screen that isn’t answering back.

Worry not, all else have been informed your number’s next in line.

A single drop of blood is a postcard to Hades announcing a ticket purchase.


Maybe you should crawl back to where you came from,

back to where it’s safe.

There was a real world looking in when you were busy looking out

Maybe you should scramble into where your bed has been made.

We wrote the script for you.

We wrote the script for you.


Do you want to be mad now that you’ve got what you wanted?

A little floodlight can hover over the tomb at night.

That small hope must keep burning bright.

You’ll be dragged to the end without a sound.

Until then you’ll spend until you dry.

( ❤ Mitch)