Lend the Rope, I’ll Tie the Knot

Hang the outlier.

Take this on the authority of a liar,

for a liar I am and out beyond the lines.

With the bark and the nail and the hammer in the back,

raise the marauder among the ranks,

further into the sky with arms outstretched

for now having the allure of a beautiful potential, preparing to embrace.

The secret behind the fear in the clouds is theirs to behold.

By chance it could be a plunge into the everlasting shadow—

The infinity of nothing in all its lack of glory.

By chance it could be a reach into the fabled story of eternity—

The unending reality of never feeling worry.

Hang the outlier and hang them high,

for I’ve heard on the authority of a liar,

and the liar I am and far too assured to falter.

A balloon around the wrist and a cannonball for the ankle.

I’ll take these tokens of friendship,

wear them proudly upon my fragility

as the matching consequence to the sensitivity underneath my frame.

No concrete domain opens to the approach of years.

This is a guarantee placed on a gambler’s word.

The bridge could fold on its own design and unravel out of time.

A construct so clear finds obscurity in the throes of uncertainty,

with the certainty itself hiding in direct sight.

Hang the outlier and hang them tight,

for I’ve heard on the authority of a liar,

and the liar I stay and deluded to veracity.

A hollow mark for the efforts never made and never meant,

for there was never a chance to reach for clarity.

No space was left to consider an alternative.

The lashes on these joints and the hand on my throat

bear one at fault only, and I can’t meet his eyes.


( ❤ Mitch)

Manifest Nothing

Gray expanse cluttered with industry and broken wheels.

I read in a book and had it placed in my head that it’ll take me somewhere someday.

The words tumble out the same as they always have;

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

wilting violently in the heat of a southern sun.

Every bump on the path is laid with no intention beside potential derision

as a puppet master shakes their head at the twisting of their name.

Grit those teeth and keep blood below the boiling point

because there’s said to be promise beyond the flat green totality.

And it screams in the radio when a different song is playing,

or in the hum of the engine struggling to deal with the potholes:

The everlasting beckoning of a dream that’s not there;

A future that’s rusted around its waist.

These passing structures attest to a past that is drifting by.

The white of the cold months wipes the dull slate clean,

readying for a year of conquest with the return of the most vacant bright color.

In a cycle it turns in time with the shifting of the night;

A repetitive fable of a place set in nowhere with an aspiration for somewhere less.

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

sinking dispassionately in a heap of southern sand.

The gray stretches on, having no limitations on its sprawling limbs,

Every nondescript station a dot on a broader horizon as exhaust climbs higher.

Submerged in a quiet desperation do I find my numbing mind,

the details that were never there magnified in their empty scale.

I swear at this point I must have been a passenger to every tree in the land,

their bark the conduit of the hollow myths currency is traded for.

This rust is rubbing off onto the fabric of these bones.

There’s no boundary to the sky so there’s no telling why I saw an end to the stars.

The roaring nothing is never lost on my ears.

( ❤ Mitch)

Metric Explanations of Decomposition

I was always worried this room would stay small,

and I’d never know how until the end of it all.

The stray sharp edge was enough of a reason

when the reaping came by every season.

Raise the curtain and let the spotlight poke through,

the yellow bright shining on the caverns under my eyebrows.

It’s another day making love to a make-up kit,

making up a made-up expression to make a false perception.

Read off the notecard tucked under the mirror as the bad shapes reappear

and repeat after the repeat that this is not defeat:

These are only the days that fall short of expectation when set too high,

the constructed sun of last night’s promises singeing ambitious wings.

A nonexistent ring is a victim of an unbalanced floor raised to the second story,

the roof locked in, forced to complacency by owner’s hand.

The faults in the foundation never left the bathroom mirror.

The cracks in the framing were always on the decaying expression.

I remember walking through the passages in this ghost-town of a house,

never noticing the process of the walls as they had become so tall.

So suddenly it seemed that scorched limbs were backed against shrinking borders.

With a back perpetually against a brick face,

I’ll place blame on the runaway builder,

tucking behind the shovel, the scythe, the tools of the trade,

forgoing the plan of questioning the lines carved in the concrete.

The faults in the foundation had been there for the entirety.

The reason of it all at the end of it all runs in the wooden veins of my frame.

This space so small when at the final bow was the construction of these hands.

Like a planet orbiting, the place where I was will always return in the passage of time,

And spinning as fast as I was, trying to get dazed and fall out of order,

I got my wrist stuck on a stray edge and felt the floorboards creak.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Force and the Object

These shades are drawn but I see everything.

She says she wants to be wanted.

She wants to be wanted by someone else.

This veil of comfort swallows me whole.

She says she wants to be wanted.

She wants to be wanted by someone else.

And in our twisting geometry, we occupy this space,

filling every corner with what cannot be erased.

Every brush disguised—I never really knew

when lips were moving, all they reaped was white noise.

Let’s call it beautiful and play into our fears.

We searched the atlas of us and scraped against the edges.

Counting the lines lining up and down these arms

with crossed fingers hoping the math will favor us.

Those eyes are wandering but I see where they go.

He says he wants to be wanted.

He wants to be wanted to know that he can.

This blank assurance leaves me hanging on.

He says he wants to be wanted.

He wants to be wanted by anyone else.

Lay down your past and think only one name.

If you can break every frame that lurks behind

I promise the same—I have nothing to keep.

I need only one name and only three words.

Drown this love in ink and I’ll soak it up, every phrase,

holding to the dots and crosses as my lifeboat.

With the familiar eroding beneath me,

I leave myself with only one destination.

Confide to me it’s safe—tell me it’s not too soon.

Tell me you feel the same and we’re defying our self-made flaws.

Tell me you feel the same—tell me this is reality.

Pinch the marks and feel no more pain.

I’ll tell you what you want to hear, I’ll tell all.

I’ll tell all when you’re wrapped around my chest.

With the exit locked and a moon hanging over,

close the blinds and pretend the moon never sets.

Those hands are tracing and getting dangerous.

She says she wants to be wanted.

She wants to be wanted to remember the taste.

This mass of chances was never meant to mean.

He says he wants to be wanted.

He wants to hear what he’ll never hear.

Not in this room.

( ❤ Mitch)

No-Man’s Land

I’ve been bleeding over the corners of my pages.

My body’s leaking ink and heading straight for the drain.

The spectators clap at the familiar spectacle,

checking off the dates until the next episode.

How bold it was for you to wrap me up in tape.

Thought gaping holes were only papercuts.

But the sirens were wailing all the way to warn of a mistake.

Yet you stayed behind.

I’ve been feeling less of myself—I think I lost it.

The blueprints of my image were youthful fantasies.

In that smile—the power of the rising sun,

and I could paste it over those old photographs.

You read the coded lines after I smoothed over my creases.

When there was a reaching out, you were reaching in.

Two figures spinning intertwined screaming, “Hallelujah,

we’ve found the place to reconcile our demons.”

For this pool of swirling phrases was close to your door.

The footprints you left behind traced every motion forward.

The ghosts were knocking at the door and you spurned their return

by trusting a faulty dam to hold them back.

If that’s destiny then I suppose this is our lot:

Broken and when pieced together, worse than how we started.

But when our fingers brush past I’ll pretend I can forget,

If you pretend that you can never leave.

We’re digging deep down in our foxholes, holding out for the rain.

The acid on our tongues will be enough to quiet doubt.

This is a makeshift forever story, so as we’re staying put,

We might as well be good to our promises.

This can be the hill we die on—these trenches mark our graves.

So we might as well be good to our promises.

( ❤ Mitch)


Sweet scent of nectarine,

my personal heroine.

Why don’t we drown together

in the glow of the spring?

Vibrant ceramic skin

clothed in nature’s embrace.

Can I share this fabric

and tease a way in?

Caressing somewhere between the trees

the potent needle of nostalgic euphoria.

Eardrums were ringing, awash in the sound

of separate parts becoming a whole.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it in every face I see.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it through memory.

Falling, colored leaves

tangled in our grasp.

Should we climb together

above the branches?

Find privacy from the vines,

the avalanche of dying things,

gasping for sunlight to feed our roots

to bring this kiss to life.

Caressing somewhere between the trees

the thought of someone once known.

Veins were pounding, drugged to the sound

of steady beats racing to infinity.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it in every hand I hold.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it through all the letters.

Sensations pulse to the forefront of my fingertips

as the motions pass through this empty chest.

I feel a change buried deep inside.

But the image blurs—

it’s fading to fog,

the dust begins to cascade down.

The snow around these parts is a bitter taste:

Bitter sap in veins,

feel bitter on tongues,

feel stings that poke and prod like knives.

No path left among the bedlam

and the leaves keep falling,

the leaves keep falling.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat it with a name.

And I try to repeat, repeat it,

repeat it in a frame.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat as you said.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat it when you’re gone.

( ❤ Mitch)

Hello, Everyone!

Wow! I just wanted to say thanks to all of the individuals that have followed my blog over the past few days. I know it’s not much, but it is very incredible to me, a very obscure writer, to suddenly witness over 40 people join me on this journey. Being able to post here frequently and receive such wonderful attention is amazing; I couldn’t be happier with how this has started out. It is small growth, to be sure, but the current progress that has been made is very encouraging.

What happens now? I’m going to keep plugging away at what I do here. I’m looking into getting some additional assistance to get this domain a bit more presentable. I believe it looks fine as it stands, but I’m not an expert when it comes to crafting websites and would love to upgrade it to an even greater level. Beyond that, I’ll continue to look into other online publications I can use to submit my pieces and, ideally, grow the following I’ve amassed here. If I could manage to reach a 100 followers by the end of the year, I’d consider that an immense victory. That’s probably unrealistic, so in all honesty, whatever I end up with, I will be satisfied with it.

Once again, thank you very much for stopping by! I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read my poetry. If you’d like, you’re always welcome to leave a comment or two; I’d love to chat with all of those that are stopping by here. I can promise that I do not bite! I had to go through years of braces, I’m not going to ruin my teeth that way.

Much love,

Mitch ❤

Go Hug a Cactus

Carving a spot in line towards the edge.

Spending time trying to hide inside the cracks,

but the thorns on these weeds wrap around the joints

and this all starts to crumble into the sand,

finding a hand in the company of dust.

You say, “it’s just a cough—it’s a passing phase,

you’ll grow old and over it”—must just be a craze.

Some pieces of candy on the counter, wrapped in a bow,

tagged as a heart-shaped remedy.

Took a piece and five and heard a drifting scream.

I suppose it’s a melody.

You say, “just walk away—it’s the changing day,

you’ll grow old and over it.”

And in the chasm under these eyes, the color sinks,

the whole thing stinks of a self-fulfilled betrayal,

and you’re handing out invitations in the mail.

You say, “it’s only fair—it’s just for you,”

but where the hell were you?

I’m here—held deep and down—

now sincerely holding henceforth:

Wherever you stay,

the places you leave and the ones you remain,

Go hug a cactus and you’ll understand the warmth you lack.

( ❤ Mitch)

Cause & Effect Syndrome

You were awakening.

You were opening.

In the morning I saw you and you were shining.

Through the beads of sweat caressing every blade,

you progressed every test that was placed squarely in the way.

I was caught trembling,

left empty, thinking:

God damn, is this life?

And the kiss of every razor’s edge grew a rose,

painted over,

said you already settled the score against yourself.

Truth is I can’t dictate the heart or mind to concede to changing tides—

unprepared and unable to satisfy this demand:

To be happily pushed and set all aside so that smile can glow.

This is different.

This is insanity.

Torn between joy within those eyes and selfishness—

to be kept in the pocket atop of your chest

so every breath in, I’m burrowing in.

Don’t forget me.

I’m forgetting myself.

The smell is the same—

clothes haven’t changed since the day we first met.

But you laid down a map, traced diagonals in red,

marked an ‘X’ with a swear you’d find yourself there

buried in rebirth.

A retribution,

a return,

to times that once were always settled and at peace.

The mold beckons out for only so many limbs,

so you’re cutting out the useless parts—

and you threw me in.

Am I blessed to attest to the soaring of your spirit?

Or reserved and defeated to be stones at your behest?—

Trampled over to realize this is the best way to see you fully become.

Every force has reaction—

The suitcase leaves me crying.

I see in a mirror years spent burdened with fear

and it’s building a fortress on my cheeks.

You embrace such a crippled, broken frame,

and I recoil in disgust of myself for falling every time.

Yet in case of this love, if science holds weight,

we’re as guilty as gravity.

Take this wordless confession, unspoken in all manners.

Let it go unheard—

in the end, our matter matters only to drip—


replenish this hollow soil.

And in that perhaps I am content.

There’s no purpose to writing,

rambling on and on for a sign of approval.

My shoulders are broken.

They sag in the recess of every lurking failure,

so I won’t let this be another.

Here’s a page from the book you taught me on the oceans:

Underneath all the skin we’re begging “let us in.”

This is pointless—

so motions direct us all away,

protecting the self through isolation.

The Earth always moves and shoves at every corner.

So should we, as you said, discard all looming anchors.

Am I baggage?

Are you free now?

Tell me how do I figure this out

when my only clue is looking in doors you exited through and gauging every footstep.

I’ll assume for the worst that to win I have to lose.

At least then one of us works a way out of hell.

So don’t look back.

Forget me.

I’m forgetting myself.

Don’t look back, forget this.

It’s better without.

( ❤ Mitch)

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)