By Policy, it is Declared

There can be no more hope, so says the federation.

Tiny cells all unite to pronounce desperation.

Whether personal belief brings this forward, I don’t know,

but split my skull and surely there’s much to show.

The theory of my failure rests deep in superstition:

That someday the parts won’t equal to the whole.

Keep the lights dim and pour on the rain effects,

since I’m out of ways to drain the water from my fears.


If you can build something beautiful, I have to see.

If you have something to say I need to hear it.

If there’s a place you need to be, I’ll be the guide there,

and if you find yourself buried, I’ll dig you out.

But ask nothing about how my heart’s feeling tonight.

I have no inspiration—keep your eyes to yourself.

The steady drum of pen on paper—a monotonic marching band—

just the sound of tedium thundering out.


How could it be to bring all the worst out of me?

The mouth dictates mind but today I have no words to find.

Any string of letters erupting is simply tumbling,

unfurling like a rainbow—the allure that brings you nowhere.

How could it be—you bring the worst out of me.

I dive into your irises and for once feel no consequence.

The confederacy of casual sends danger signals out,

because if I’m falling for this then I’ll break myself again.


Instead, I’m sitting across and laughing away my thoughts.

You said you run on caffeine and gravity:

One kept you moving and the other kept you grounded.

No matter where you leave, there’s a compass back to home.

Though your vision of home has an accent,

mine is familiar, mine is easy, mine is safe.

Give it time and you could crack down every wall,

and for once in this life I’ll live without a shell.


But there’s a reason we wear our shields and don our masks:

Some of us stand tall in a hurricane and others shatter like glass.

When I speak of you, nothing but purity coats the stories I convey,

but it covers for the fact my own tales are in shreds.

I hate the front and the pages, the way the conclusion shifts and sways,

and I hate the way you make me care about myself.

If I was self-aware, I’d abandon ship now,

but I’m drunk off of a crushing feeling in my chest.


To make this easy, send a note about our odds,

and if it doesn’t stack up, I’ll sleep better and float away.

As it is, I’ve already spent too much time stressing

for something that—deep down—will always be nothing.

And maybe it could but maybe not,

and maybe there are too many maybes.

All I know—deep down—is that after all the stressing

it will always amount to the same summation—nothing.


When the federation shot you down, I mourned at the funeral;

not for the loss of friend but the loss of a voice:

A haven where my loneliness was for once wrapped in comfort.

A place so close my lips had almost graced it.

But I did the numbers—if I stay here, I’ll shiver to death.

You’re face-up in your coffin asking me “How’s my luck? How’s this love?”

And on my lack of self-esteem I hereby swear, “not a chance.”

( ❤ Mitch)

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