… for a drop of blood

“… for a drop of blood”

Sourness is brilliance misunderstood;

or so it seems when the fantastical is robbed of the magical,

supplanted with wayward, youthful idealism.

Broken backs over the coffee table

are the reminders of an affectionate touch,

like a bull’s dedicated horns piercing surgically through the abdomen.


I’ll tattoo these if the scars start to fade,

tracing leaked fluid on pages as cherished mementos,

shedding weight by the ounces of blood cried for loss.

Gloss over in reds and purples to cloak the diminished sum.

Tally up to win when victory is a love letter’s fantasy.

The irrational rationalizes come the invasion of isolation.


Wasn’t it good when everything was good?

Rosey eyes paint flowering depictions of bitter pictures.

Weren’t we perfect when it clicked out of shape;

a frame of scattered objects jagged enough to ever break?


And I held your tongue at the tip of my teeth.

Do we dare to speak and reveal what passion hides?

An arm roughly revolved behind in a gesture of control,

so willingly bent to be at the knee of the beloved opponent.


A voiceless plea cries out somewhere subdued in shallow motions,

stuck between the nonexistent space crafted by colliding motives.

Survival of the most ill fitted to survive

as guaranteed by our mutually conflicting alibies:

The feast is the sustenance on which we preserve

and for which we can justify a lack of loneliness inside

despite the moments when the pangs surge into consciousness

when the onset of realization announces its advance.


Another ride too close to the sun’s arms

while failing to stitch up the singes of relief,

bursting out in sighs that confuse content with conquest.


Placed in front of the promise of voyages to the uncharted,

surrounded by the unrelenting gray that intrudes by the day,

I’d go to hold your tongue at the tip of my teeth

and swallow back the words I actually want to say.

It’s easy enough to lose count of my shattered bones.

One more cracked on the table can’t hurt after all.

~

❤ Mitch

Oh No, Daylight

“Oh No, Daylight”

It could have been there

between the cracks of conscious and unconscious breath.

Somewhere traded in the lips of ghosts,

I’ve traversed a bridge to link wayward spirits.

For a moment in the drama behind closed eyes,

I dress a stranger in vibrant colors

and swallow the rainbow to sustain.


It could have happened out there,

a street passing Infinitesimal to our selfish selves.

Stares only grazed skin’s surface,

the mind never truly knowing its neighbors.

Yet for seconds ephemeral in the bright of the dark,

tangled nothings shed cloth

and drink in the passion to sustain.


A question lingers unsaid

as the cracks in the blinds expose the film.

In the shine of day,

I swear I saw you there

caught walking in the halls.


A thought invades in haste

when transient is seen for what it is,

even when there’s a knock

that I swear was real.


Would you stay or would you drift?

Would you share this fountain

passed back and forth

to sustain?


It could have been there

as she exits from an ear to its opposite.

It could have been there

once the mirage bleeds into desert sands.


Understood in quiet, morning hours,

I comprehend the stranger made confidant in a fleeting touch,

gently caressing the elegance of the unfamiliar.

Is it out of my hands to pull down the allure from the unreal?


Perhaps it is best to forget the fabricated.

Wounded heads speak in screams when isolated to bed.

If only I was able to say goodbye.

~

❤ Mitch

Spiral! Spiral! Spiral!

I’m an explorer for what I want to know,

yet perceiving only wrongs in glances and sentences.

Here sat at an impasse between your realities

as I choose demise between falsehood and aching truth.


I rely on you to say

If there’s explanation required behind masks

or the expressions are exactly the whole of their parts.

I’ll be sapped at command in waiting rooms,

transferred to accompany your loving indecision.


Waved hands beckon to everywhere nonspecific.

I long to uncover the somewhere I find in you

when I swear a shine hits a gaze a certain way,

sparse enough evidence to hold steady the art of fantasy.


I rely on you to say

if this conversation tone is steps closer to rest,

or the sound of an abating echo discovering oblivion.

Maimed in self-throes in tangled motivations,

I’ve but traces to affection buried in dried blood,

writing judgement across for what is and what is not,

neither seen in an eye beyond mine.


The butcher’s hand is my own device

to excavate the best as if to stave off a flooding ship,

laying to the floor until a skeleton remains.


I rely on you to say

if this is the beauty I’m meant to portray

or if I wasn’t even noticed in flesh or otherwise,

proposing prose to the concept of you,

never attainting the attention of the person,

but the act ahead of actuality.


To make a judgement call off of emptiness,

I’ll improvise our interactions.

The nothingness is enough to savor me

as it drains me further still.

~

❤ Mitch

Ain’t it a Shame

Wrote nothings and licked over the edges,

sealed shut for a nebulous purpose.

I’ve packaged air to send across the waves

to crawl down the back of your neck,

picking out the hairs to stand at the ready.

Gunning for that niche in the gray matter.

Had a thought there was still a seat saved.


Hurts to recognize I’m a magazine salesman,

seeing a story where I’m the fuck up,

you’re the right one,

and I can’t argue much of it.

Decomposed a symphony rolling out.

Tied a strategic knot in the tongue.

Vocal cords would’ve become useless anyways.

Actions purchase their consequences.

Hurts to realize I’ve fucked up.

~

(<3 Mitch)

Cost Ineffective

It couldn’t be afforded but was taken anyway.

There wasn’t a price tag to our narrative;

it was scrawled on brick,

etched into philosophy:

great are we as we realize ourselves in perserverance.


The limits placed were redirected,

made boundaries on society,

called out the enemies of industry,

where words out of rival mouths were propaganda cries.

Tuned it out with glass and plastic,

licking dry the drug of our lips,

laid in a heap when embraced,

stranded drifters scrambling to cover breaches in the hull.

One hand releasing drowns us

as we find the boundary of physicality,

low on limbs to forgive cracks in the apartment.


Out pours what can never be admitted.

You’ve an anger to accept versus my violent silence.

Knowing that facing the separation would birth havoc,

gauging flaw from fact,

all were damned to be liars against imagination.

Encumbered in the flood too long,

we stopped noticing the lack of breath between us,

finding gasps to be pleasure,

losing sight of the shore as glorious spontaneity

under the gaze of a rigid world.


You’ve glass to pluck out of your forearm

when the closing call fought an urge for more.

I’ve fabric to barricade my new hell,

wishing you well while descending,

cloaking harm marks with tattooed grins.


It couldn’t be afforded and now red signs are red integers

lining conscious,

mutually depleted.

Etched it on the back of my hand

and still told all to a brick wall

when knowing falls repeat as the globe spins;

you glide in gravity back to where you started,

and what clouded before is the head’s atmosphere.


Subdued it with plastic.

It ran free

as she’s somewhere in the sea,

drowned ten feet down or hovering above,

neither in sight from a knife’s edge.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

It Was Enough to be Called Our Own

Hear the whisper of severed chords.

It’s ending tonight.

Innocence disrobed and robbed of excuses,

we stood around the smoldering shreds of a paper town.

Cutout ideas and origami architecture on the bedroom floor

posed a riot against our past selves.

The city outside the window was wrong about us.

In a riot against our shadows,

stamping out heartfelt hard truths,

I swore the taps echoed like poetry,

where we danced in a dream adorned in white.


A trembling hand held in a steady palm

felt a distant isle shrinking in a haze,

familiar made foreign where recognition stood.

Fingers grazing now recoiled

while foraging for whatever was there before.


Our sky of blankets, propped up by youthful assurance

swung by the wayside in our turbulence,

shaking the parchment roof to heel.

We asked for another round of the glass we shared in the moment

when terra burst from blankness,

drew forms on a paper town,

but hope only lasts so long in dried ink and crumbled lines,

and the folded lies come to flourish last.


I swore in the lessening glow

we danced in a dream adorned in white.

In our makeshift metro,

the city was silent at the sight of untangled stars.

It had to crash eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

I am the Enemy, Raise Your Weapon

Ink charred to ash

to scatter about in the ocean

when trying to preserve a winter

where I had lost a sense of self,

and found direction into nowhere lands.


If dust still clings to photographs,

the remnants of words can swim just as well.

These waters can be a home.

There’s no line between where our bone and blood meet

or the difference between the currents and our contents.


Condense the cascade into a buoy

standing upright despite bent backs.

I’m thinking it’s enough to carry for another season

of backwards believing that two pairs of eyes both look back.


Stand upright amidst the roar of a draining hourglass.

The memories are losing your presence.

You become but a ghost.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Putting Blanks in Blank Spaces

Emptiness is a kiss on the cheek,

barely brushing the bone behind skin,

needling at structure too slightly to ever see

until deep in the white is an irreversible knife.

Aching comes as the thought of an embrace;

the gesture unspoken, unwanted,

unknown when confined to literature and portraiture;

alien if never seen or felt.


I remembered it in songs written about anyone but us,

never heard by us,

never known by us.

I remembered playing pretend in the twilight as our sun set,

tracing makeshift constellations with my fingers,

the surface of the sky bending to the will of fable.


It only needs sustenance at the assurance of shared words.

Bled from supposed coping,

now the palette of the storyteller,

let the Greeks romance what I demonstrate miles above our heads.

Codified into the study of condition and fitness,

the character I step into can enter in the alphabet of stars.


Ask a question to challenge it as I find the will to create it:

What if eyes are only as good as our minds,

and fear holds the reins when loosened by consciousness?

These reservations are furniture stains,

stubborn against the methods that work to wipe the woe.


What if a cluster’s lines are not the meeting of intersection,

and parallel lines are what we come to be defined by?

These limitations are the imaginary numbers,

understood as existent but their purpose disputed.


Coy penmanship can replace the blanks of ripped-out pages with equations,

measure distances and trick the answer to zero.

I could see the geometry of you and me in songs we didn’t make,

we never wrote,

we never heard.


You replied without an inquiry to spare,

but the answer to that which was lodged in my chest,

cracked by an emptiness biding its time with an irreversible knife:

It wasn’t that it wasn’t there,

but what was there wasn’t shared,

and it wasn’t wanted.

( ❤ Mitch)

Every Page Unwritten

He lit a candle in a cave untouched through years,

where only photo book reminders colored the sides.

Written down in the margins of coy messages mailed between desks,

something resonated in the angles and the threes.


Even if the letters shrink in the knocking of aging,

you’re cuddled up near the ghost of an ash pile’s warmth.

It was a thought prepared to take up arms when a mind rejected.

Now all that rests is a heart dotted with wax stains.

( ❤ Mitch)

Plain as the Eye Can(not) See

Side by side yet viewing the same things differently.

The portrait suppresses changing though eyes dress up static in costumes.

Be it poor luck or Pollock,

black splashes or testament,

perception is what we ourselves will make of it,

and what we ourselves make is a bridge lined with kerosene.


Staring into painted faces,

I don’t know what I seek for in them,

sending wayward glances to neighboring papers,

copying off reality to merge with the imaginary.


When you transformed your hand into a fist,

crumpled up a ragged piece of parchment,

could it be read as a sign that I’m left out of sight?

I don’t see loss in receding numbers or the observation of a wreck.

I see descending scraps that need but tape and patience.

A small idea sent to spiral out can be reeled in,

or I’m left weary in the gaze of a painted face’s musings,

or the words in my ear are only there when made to appear.


The comfort that I feel is the embers of a severed connection,

for I’ve learned to construct meaning out of the fleeting,

gathering ashes in buckets and making castles out of the remains,

fortifying memory against the grain.

What burns now is the warmth of guessing games,

for I’ve learned to dream away fears by repressing them with escapes,

plunging deep into infinity where realities diverge,

life plays by multiple choice and all answers are checked green.

It replaces you and we and our.


I am the product of the blueprint unintended.

I am sustained off of what could have happened if you didn’t shake your head.

( ❤ Mitch)