Open the Blast Doors

Rip out the cord,

ending the chord of the alarm

ringing incessantly,


searching for meaning

in its mounting opposition

that threatens to claw,

tearing at its heart

once inherent to one,

now made separate.

And in aftermaths in future,

in visions foreseen

in the idyllic whisps

of coffee room dreams,

the screaming is permitted to cease

and has no floor to stand on.

The supports shudder

and are no longer.

This body moves on.

( ❤ 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 Bastardization of Theory

Draw it up exactly as was told.

Traverse from A to B in rehearsed tones,

bounding up and down familiar phrases

where the destination is cemented in expectation.

The notes hold a smile to purchase,

no different than the neighbor’s song

and the neighbors of their own and the neighbors of past.

Lay it all bare on global waves

while strolling down the path most traveled.

The grass can only get so high until the jungle becomes the home:

The cutthroat utopia where all is predetermined,

the predator is king,

his legions are the apex,

and the space beyond is uncharted desert.

Read it in discarded expressions.

Drink it in from secondhand inspiration.

A cardboard cutout cell comes courtesy of constructed fantasies,

penned up behind idyllic white lines across the lawn.

Never stray from the flock.

Repeat all the right words,

their veracity assured by the carnivore czars,

teeth shining in plastic grins.

Repeat all the right words.

One size sentence fits all.

Step on halfheartedly without a personal dream to adhere to.

Step on or choke on the questions that lurk under the throat,

threatening to boil over the tongue for the grievances never spoken,

yet ever growing in their strength,

feasting on the confusion of a waste laden road

where rank and file, all are sorted and promptly escorted

into the great known.

Drop the pen.

Let it recede into polluted imaginations

where currency is in control.

Snap off a branch from the jungle

and carve an arching route away from skyscraper skies.

No protections await.

No guards to strap one inside the box.

No rails to grip onto.

Only an unknown that beckons,

ever so tantalizing,

where the uncertain end is more alive than the concrete,

and the notes are improvised.

Accept the fear of failure but do not shiver.

From loss and setback comes strength to survive.

In the exterior of fabricated freedoms,

the creator is king.

Accept the crown.

( ❤ Mitch)

Hush Now! The Boy Tries to Speak

Sprawled out across a graphic of every choice,

the roots crisscross across a chronology linked deep into veins,

every spot pocked through a dot on a line,

trudging offstage right where a darkened hallway awaits.

If each limb could speak to me now,

they’d tug back to where they called home,

having warped around the infrastructure of discarded dreams,

their endurance unfaltering when sustained by the currency of dilemma,

inventing the reasons why they should thus remain,

erupting in a mass of ironclad vines.

Lay down a torch to one route and the next is widened:

A hydra of my decisions as influenced by the currency of dilemma,

wishing the problems away while convinced their presence is my strength.

That strength sits at a nondescript desk in a crowded space,

not a single face from which a trace can be made to remembrance,

reduced to the atoms of imagination;

blank and grey with only rehearsed words to utter.

My strength rests his head down on a nondescript desk and forms a waterfall,

using the edges to cascade over the currency of dilemma,

feeding the pooling struggles,

providing nutrients for their grip,

warping around the feet of the table now firmly conquered in discarded dreams.

The strength of me comes to shrink as blank, grey faces usher it to a brink.

I bear the insults of those same phrases as though coded in universal language,

inked as a permanent stop on a passage of a life;

the tattooed stigma of never getting over ‘it,’

where the ‘it’ is among thousands of ‘it’ cropping up in legions,

smirking at futility when a rash hammer’s blow brings more to the show.

I bring down this gauntlet as if the truth I always needed

in attempt to preserve that which acts as my blood.

Though laid so vulnerable at a desk that shifts rooms

until the setting around is a senate’s stained floor,

I accept the knife wounds of wayward words as a testament to me:

To this so-called strength I’ve accepted.

To this allowance of abuse I’ve consented.

To be a number sliced into a quarter of its worth.

To turn nothing prematurely.

The swarm piles into a tower arcing miles above bloodied tiles,

using the cracks to draw a picture of adolescence,

submitted to the ensnarement of screaming vines.

You are the undergrowth dragging me down,

tucking me under a carpet of leaves,

sheltered from the rain captured by taller branches.

You are no strength to draw from the past,

nor the weapons of words that were cast.

You are a voice inside of my head

and nothing more can be given to your power.

I am he that developed from mere gas and dust,

introducing ignition to dry up a waterfall’s rampaging current.

I do not sit in the place where I began.

I do not gather strength from the mistakes I have made.

Their false embrace is a burden to wear,

but it grows slightly softer as the timeline marches onward,

walking by a desk in discarded dreams,

traversing plains not yet seen

where the path is never littered with weeds.

( ❤ Mitch)

Walked to a Cliff to Walk Back

The choice had been robbed from me

in obscurity of emotional insecurity.

Shades drawn with the chill of the freezer leaking,

the silent film dotted the room in the stains of coping,

not once overheard for voices were kept low,

confined to a grimace come every instance where edges turn vibrant,

playing savior to deprecation,

lining up limbs in row to tally off each show,

ran on the daily for the unavoidable episode,

yet still in the quiet with shades drawn,

a freezer leaking,

a grimace concealing.

In the collision of circumstance when years removed,

the screen possesses a mind of its own,

refusing stray blows to succumb to silence,

bending but unbreakable to an assault from over the counter.

No sleight of hand can transform memory

or the remembrance it offers as written upon my skin,

defying orders to sink below to match a brighter color

even when a call for a future beckons greater than before.

I’m consigned to a willingness to write the conclusion.

Though stood with steadiness in appearance,

the movements I make cause a constant quake as I try to forge away,

the shockwave soldiers crusading to sack the soul.

Peeling back the blinds lets only a sliver in

to melt away the ice age left to flourish in isolated confines.

It’s barely enough to call a progression to uncertainty,

but when rising from the bed and feeling water grace my toes,

I feel a slight assurance

that one day my dreams may beat my fears,

and march a fragment of me across the decade line.

Then one day I may make my dreams

from make believe and into an open door,

roaring through halls on a rushing river,

for the one day I may win against my fears.

And one day the screen will flicker to black,

and in a blank reflection I’ll be caught shouting in color,

wrapped so tightly in the coil of a razor,

damning the urge to a depth below soil

where the buried remains of coping lay.

And in that embrace, I will shrug off the restraints,

And place no hope in a knowing dead end,

for I’ve found courage in uncertainty,

where the day will come where I win against my fears

and never be caught silent again.

( ❤ Mitch)