Past Selves in a Future Tense

I burnt down the past self

to fit into my fist;

to shake about in disagreement;

to shudder in its blows.

Captured the ash into amber

and wore it about my neck.

A world removed

made ever closer

as a tomorrow evades

in crimson sunsets resting.

Curled into a remembrance,

futures are but reflections

of a previous wanting

made a widow to satisfaction.

( ❤ 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)

Shuffle Towards the Entrance, Eyes Upward

In aftermaths passed,

a wrecked portrait of greenery

endeavors to deprive ash of its permanence,

reconstructing to the idyllic image of youth

as if never harmed before.


He was to be found inside,

entangled in vines

that aspire much higher

than a mind had conceived.


He was found then

when no one searched,

and in a way

had more power

and more to discover

than in crowded rooms.

( ❤ Mitch)

Doing the Long Jump with Ankle Weights

Reached out too far,

now unbalanced on a beam

looking over into the abyss of cityscape visions.


Empty skeletons

of hollow infrastructure,

naught but a patchwork idea of how it could’ve been.


Iron and fire

molded to structural grace

are bound only by the thin glue of blood.


A touch of rust and a palette’s drained.

A receding figure and schematics shudder.

A flaw is made fatal

in what will have been.

In what never should have been.

In what failed to exist without you.


Dared on chance,

and lost trace of tempo,

drumming clattering to halt at rushing beyond bounds.


Empty skeletons

of vanished imaginings,

disappearing behind the curtain tugged back to reveal what never is.

In what will have been.

In what never should have been.

In what failed to exist without you.


Through a lens from faraway if you’d explain it so,

shoot a message across the distance with an arrow’s precision.

Cut it down where the body hangs from the balcony,

straddling the divide between the perserverance and the deliverance.

Toppling to one side to the wayside equates a familiar loss.

Dead and dying on either path of the question’s mark.


If I’d known better I would’ve manufactured dire weather

and remain ingrained in grains of atomized ideas.

A concept finds demise in writing when handcuffed to drawing.

Quiet motions dictate what words would never provide on their own.

Closed lips are shells that resonate over desolate,

echoing in the corridors of ghost town architecture.


A concept finds demise in writing when its meaning is limited to paper.

If we never act it was it ever really there?

Was it there?

Were we there?


In nights where vulnerability is inevitability,

I wonder if it’s possible if thoughts are spent on me.

If insecurity comes to plague stability,

are you visited by our doomed ventures to reinvent gravity?


Torched in a metropolitan’s dead skin,

littering the scarred pavement,

airplane debris is arranged into an obelisk,

taken as the prize of a futile empire,

stood tall in the town square

where all my shards are laid bare.


Art testifies to the tests of psychology,

dotting droplets of paint into the gaps of anthology.

In experience it has been seen why the act of releasing a grasp causes pause.

Reaching out too far risks imbalance.

If not concrete, visions are but imperfections of eyesight

for arching past the scope of melancholia’s inhibitions.


Ruins are that which exist in mind,

in sight,

yet out of both,

unattainable,

but close enough to cling to believing.

( ❤ Mitch)

For the Next Trick…

After the rest,

when the “all else” already fails

as has been proven before,

there’s only a greater fathom still unfathomed,

the depth an augmentation of a lack of reflection

for having never been invited to respective homes.


And in rest,

when the drinks are emptied out

and the masks recede for the night,

we’ve yet to reckon with what caused smashed plates,

the metaphorical we hurled into the physical

while coming undone in plain view.

Smile Wide! We’re All OK!

A price to be put on a life.

Forms shudder at the question plastered on screens

made obvious by a construction society.

From the womb, we come armed,

tongues bared as rifles to evaporate opposites,

mouths primed to be wrecking balls upon poor infrastructure.


Good soldiers tear down the fellow man,

but I was preoccupied with the value behind posturing;

the realm where disguise’s veil cannot cover,

and underneath is an unraveling of being.

I wanted to know identity when the television screen was quieted.

I wanted to witness how heroes came to life,

and how Earhart less a person and more a crash,

where the presence is trivial but the downfall is eternal.


I progress without direction,

possessing a name never spoken,

exiled to ending outside of the margins

where recollection fails to crystallize.

Tragedy is traded as commodity,

seen as a failure of construction society,

but beyond trusting nods and anecdotes,

the product is as intended.


Glory be to those that stumbled upon an expiration date.

Praise be unto our departed,

omniscient overlords of all questions.


Call it criminal to abide yet the clues are burned into normalcy.

The living are a disposable breed.

The living are a disposable breed.

It matters not when one roams and can be met.

Irrelevancy graces all that uncover the emptiness tucked under disguises.

A common heart is an invention of gilded philosophy.

The fellow man is a resource, not a breathing human.


Sold for gratification,

Leeched off for validation,

Abandoned as a husk:

Experience.


It matters not when a heart functions.

The past are cherished well after their passing.

Try to rip gears out of structures but hands become phantoms.

I am insignificance until storied as a loss,

and only then is a price revealed.

( ❤ Mitch)

Congratulations

The recognition is distant,

yet I can promise I am reaching.

Awareness of a lack of faults that I claimed ownership for,

though never being involved.


It’s a span measured in years,

the rings on skin the marks of age

and brushes against the monsters in mirrors,

tiptoeing specters in the hallways

with cold fingers exploiting insecurity.


It’s a span still to be finalized,

though it’s in the process I find the strange truth

that the hatred I’ve felt was never of me,

but a construct of mine.

It’s in the process I find

there was love, after all.

( ❤ Mitch)

Everyone’s Invited

Stop the vagrant irises that glide across my body.

Forget the number you puncture in the twilight.

Leave alone the strung-up emblem of derision.

Be honest in this presence:

I appear golden only if you’re rusting.


Cast out the thought that transitory equals substance.

Retreat to barstools you sit by in crowded solitude.

No more are you to force company out of your inaction.

Be honest, if only once:

I’m only special when you’re not sober.

( ❤ Mitch)

Gone, Again

Reduced to harmlessness without bordering teeth.

Beyond the maw lies the delicately shrouded.

I’m trying to be more than what appears,

but the defenses that lose to the wake have no touch with words.


Brought down to bruised knees in repeating notes.

The scenery is unchanged in the accustomed noise of breakdown.

I’m wanting to be more than a contact list afterthought,

but your lips and your eyes had an agreement with disagreement.


Staring in space filled with small nothings,

the color diluted to blend into the markers of yesterday’s happiness.

I’m striving to see the side of the optimist,

but I’ve been wed to a yesterday several years in the past.

( ❤ Mitch)

What it Means When You’ve Globalized Yourself

She said we arrived too late to try.

Roads have been lined,

their pavement engrained into pictures.

All seas are seen,

the sights have been discovered,

each isle dotted in history.

Wires describe all that was once secluded in far corners,

now adorning every page in a swift stroke.


Flags drilled into the lunar realm.

Aspirations climb to broader heights.

Down without the hope or the green to realize,

the closest to the moon our bodies reach is a fire escape.


To navigate feeble desires rests deep in my bleakness,

hardened by replaying choreography where I sit by the curb,

and quick strikes from marching boots embrace.

Muffled by the debris of demolished imagination,

I see mobile futures beckoning,

be them illusory or potential reality.


Traced across the globe,

voyages marked empires,

crossing waves and continents,

not a stone unturned.

Mapped out so thoroughly do you now see,

yet the illusive dream is untested by conquerors.


No domain has planted itself in consciousness.

Roving eyes defined that which stands before us,

but we ourselves have yet to feel it.

Mountains and canyons are a finger’s reach away,

but we have yet to understand their meaning.


Too late are we now to lay claim to names.

Take a dare on psychology’s shortcomings,

venture boldly into the unknown that’s already known,

though open to the terminology applied through memory.


Tucked in a grove of trees,

a rising hill has always been present.

Upon it as we could be,

dragging an idea into practice,

we create new meaning in old places.

Pestered by lingering ghosts,

allow a dare to flourish.

I can create new meaning

if you let me hold your hand.

( ❤ Mitch)