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)

Subtext

Did it come as a tragedy

or the expected knock you wished wouldn’t arrive?

where then does the echo find you?

now consumed by the wanted unwanted company of thoughts,

feeling their daggers softly squeeze into matter,

all unclear visions sacrifice luster,

losing light to the absolute of pitch black.

love knew a soul was waiting but found a closed door.

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)

Be Remembered For What You’re Not

Of six thousand so

and of many more of distant glow,

I’ve been plucked from the atmosphere to quell fears,

having then been drifting along a bear’s face,

spotted by a wandering gaze buying stocks of hope in a name,

never touching or meeting the body behind,

but forcing unto a weight that now twirls about my waist.


The rattle of the chain that the rope comes to be

rings out in song, chanting a universal tune,

seducing Polaris to take the wheel as the captain bails,

begging a stranger for help when all else fails,

for none were brighter than the promise of another

who shined in all their unknown glory now manufactured to a story,

and this erected expectation now bends down my shoulders.


The mechanics of fire are lost to someone in a burning building,

concerned only with fleeing from a crumbling frame,

the lightning licks of a blaze’s flicks an arrow piercing the breast.

A softer shadow from the window delivers an escape,

as a faraway fire never shows itself as deadly as one nearer,

and I tremble in a predator’s stare as their eyes deconstruct,

tearing down heart, mind, soul and every limb,

contorting my contours into a lifeboat off a sinking skyscraper.


Placed into a tapestry for adoration; I feel confined.

You’ve made me defined when all besides your manic mess

understand the puzzle of me has yet to morph into a constellation.

I’d wish to blossom into that lighthouse you perceived,

but I’m only glowing from drinking gasoline,

swallowing a lit match and closing the hatch so the embers swell inside,

protecting the self by murdering the self;

saving the surroundings by blocking them out.

And now each stab from that stare shoots gunpowder down my throat.


In that embrace of connecting fires there’s water flowing to your hands

erupting from a contradicting fight,

while the worst of the pain is fueling my explosion,

and I rise higher than I had been before,

flying past where I had begun,

Coasting down the lanes of Eridanus with the reins unhinged,

scorching the setting from where I came and freezing the closest in life,

scattering ashes when I try to scream for help

before your stray thunder knocks me down.


In a canvas of dust loosely tied by soot,

bound by a rope that arched into the heavens,

the specks warn of the predator’s gaze and the tricks played,

yet each too small and too quiet to ever perceive.

Having traced a new place in the wreckage of cosmos,

the fable of my shortcomings will never avoid vagrant vessels,

rocketing anchors into the sky to capture the North.


On my best behavior, I’m a pile of debris.

As a makeshift commander, I’ll be discovered empty,

plummeting back towards outer rims to be made bare again,

silently burning in the night:

A mere hope of a greater aware of their lesser being.


I’ll endure this and more until on my best behavior,

I’m only a pile of debris,

tracking on footprints of those that place bets on a stepping stone,

seeking salvation.

And each mark is another mark to my loneliness,

smothering me ever so slowly until I extinguish myself.

( ❤ Mitch)

All Day in Virtual Pompeii

Arrived,

stood here

with emptiness

in the space of this

cracked hole of a maw

contorted to a slight smile

as it silently puts forth a plea

to be filled henceforth to the brim

and never drained of the sustenance,

capturing it as a permanent prisoner of cold,

to law low in atria as a gentle stream of magma,

singeing softly in blackened crevices made vacant,

for the air cluttering veins is a jagged voice of smoke,

brewing nonsense without a sense to guide proper course,

simply leaving a lingering loss that expands to block out organs,

a mass glacierized to where only passing assurance is a temporary high,

though depleted slowly and softly in barren, blackened crevices,

extinguished come the morn after when the river runs dry,

drained out in a bathroom sink to purge regret’s pull,

a crooked mirror’s eye winking through its cracks,

aware of a lack of any self-aware quality to spot,

hid under worry’s scar and penciled freckles,

marks only apparent after hesitation,

made too obvious in a judge’s gaze,

for I’ve appointed this to you,

hoping henceforth at now

in this cracked-hole maw,

you’ll fill the blank space

in twisted tongues

linked here,

arrived.

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)

Found, Lost, Still Searching

The house glowed

like the passing light of a phantom.

We blinked and lost the coordinates,

but the flashing memory lingers.

Is it still within our grasp?

Left stripped of rope and tools,

the climb back to beginnings seems to perpetually end.

Left stranded without a guiding hand,

certain knowledge is better kept out of mind.

Spare the Theatrics

Breaking bones for a cause that never earned an ounce of sweat.

Following blindly along because purpose comes attached.

Sell off ambition for the cheap price of a seat in the front row of the ladder’s base,

where the climb is the dream that’s always a rung too far.


Leaping out of bounds earns a slap back in the processional

when a spark incites a reversal in the machine.

Every cough of smoke is another misunderstanding face barking:

“Stay in the lane provided from the conception to the collapse.”

Never mind if the mind was ever ready to comprehend the place it was forced to.

The decision is taken out of grasp, imposed as a foregone conclusion.


It may take time, but don’t submit to the crime of the wicked hands

tugging away at whatever fantasy you spin.

If there’s a chance then it may be worth the fight.

Feast on the nectar of dreams before it starts to run dry.


Not everyone plays sides.

The game is never fair.

Call it rigged or a skyscraper high deck that rockets to the sky.

And along the way it may twist and turn and reveal what you never knew

about the soul itself and comrades it collided with.

Take part to internalize this:

No absolutes dominate the relationship between friend to friend,

or the connection of a paper and a pencil;

the corporate call or the will to strike.


But there’s always time, so don’t fail before you try.

A chance is waiting, distant as it appears.

Tame the fear swelling below and march to close the gap.

Bring a vision to a color you can touch and feel the passion inside

as the chains relax on what holds the spark from flying off.

Bid farewell to that machinery and coast away on an odyssey.


There are many lessons to be taught on who you are and who you should not.

Transition from then into a new now

and play at a coming soon that’s outside the bounds,

several steps from the ladder base,

digging new footprints towards a different lane.

( ❤ Mitch)