Natural Aches and Pains

Break my every being into semantics.

All in all, after all, we are components of language and motion.

The mind is the driver, the heart is the fuel,

and with one last glance, I spill out my reserves.


Red and green intermingled in between the interior designs of my head,

wall-to-wall in blacks and whites, defined by absolutes:

The summary of existence when painted through the eyes of conflict.

My departure is a shattered window and concrete floor.

I arrived too late to catch the fire escape,

so I’m twisting my arms and breaking my legs to climb through cracks.

It’s a glorified stumble and crawl, regression towards the mean.

I am destined to be the average of no statistical significance.


The shoes I wear haven’t belonged to me in weeks;

I donated my possessions to the ghost that lingers the halls,

passing along the walkways, adrift in the cigarette smoke,

as passable and forgettable as the wind that exits the lungs.


There’s nothing left but the company of shadows swarming in the corners of consciousness.

They feast on the lanterns and can’t choke on the flame; they’re devoted to demise:

Parasitic beasts all bearing the faces that disappeared from my life,

wearing the memories, taunting the weakness that punctures like needles and festers for hours.

And here they do stay until miles away I’m rushing to shake hands with asphalt and dust.


Hundreds of words wasted in the tones of love and loss.

Passages passed through a tunnel-vision perspective.

Reflections in blameless glass deprived of confidence, the graveyard of countless nights

where the lingering excuse, “This will get better, this too shall pass,”

became as empty and hollow as the red and green outside in the street.

This can’t get better, this too shall remain,

unless I find a way to move beyond my pain.


My feeling for what will be kept behind grows stronger every moment.

So much I will miss and still more I know I need to leave

before I can hope to grow and get over these natural aches and pains.


I got an autograph from a razor blade,

concealed before the window shade,

two scars across a broken frame

to mark my insecurities.


A bandage on a naked wrist

peels at the seams—I can’t resist

when forward is a foreign concept

and grayness is my destiny.


The footprints we all leave behind

will testify to what we find:

That what we love cannot sustain

when what we love brings forth the rain.


I tried for years to deny

the one solution is goodbye.

I put on a smile—it fell apart.

I wish I thought of better days.


I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

( ❤ Mitch)

Spotlight Love

Bring forth the line to center stage.

Sweat beads intermingle in the haunting glow.

Should these lights dim and this spotlight love grow,

my stress—should it surpass your test—will amount to greater heights.


Cry out names, meaningless names!

Their purpose decays in a counterfeit embrace.

Cry out names, meaningless names!

We’ll turn to stone in our mutual throes.


A pair of fractured bodies are nothing more than trophies.

Count the casualties on your fingers—the victims are statistics:

The fatalities of our sharpened fangs.


We couldn’t make love, so we constructed it out of gold and cloth

and thought a monument to such monumental failure could add up to cover the faults.

Flourish in the eyes of an adoring a crowd,

then turn around and face me,

abuse the past and weaponize me.


If the blood that runs down these streets testifies to misguided strength,

then “Not to be” it will be,

dive into the troubles deep below the sea.

I am cursed to forever remember shows that won’t go on.

Yearly reviews justify the daily excuse

that the lines on my forearms are nothing but growing pains.


Titles said were senseless, that is true; but when you defined me in romantic hues,

I was compelled to be the landscape you displayed.

Surgically analyzed my outline,

mapped it out on crumpled parchment,

limbs extending outwards pointing anywhere but heavenwards.

No one could say that you didn’t know me—my every valley.

Shakespearian deception: that halo must be proud of you.

( ❤ Mitch)

Raise Yer Heads, Gents, It Can Only Get Worse

What is holding you down on the ground when everything else is floating up?

Philosophy speaks to let go of any Earthly anchors.

I wear my expiration date on my sleeve so what’s even the point

in leaving this place behind in red and white?


Too fucked up to read between the lines or drink so that they make sense.

I’ll embrace the names of my sins:

Regret, mistake, the very worst to ever be made.

Sew it together and it’s the portrait of a man

waiting for the hurricane to engulf all.


When I held your hand, I asked you, “could this be real?”

And you looked into my eyes and said, “it’s too much to feel.”

So I’ll be buying calendars as I wait for nothing to remain nothing,

but still hoping the words you trade are always meant for me.


The greats of our time told us all to stay out of line,

think abstract and teach us to look out.

As my eyes crawl up my wrist and trip over the trenches,

as my body wrestles with the obstacles of curves and edges,

I fail to see a lesson here.

I fail to see a lesson here.


And the last words that come into your head before you are dead,

are that “the mistakes we made, make us who we are today.”

( ❤ Mitch)