The Tightest Grip Loosens When Tested

Be quiet now in this breathing.

A jagged inhale is breaking.

Remain sedate

with folded hands

waiting patiently

for promises to be unbroken.

Still as can be in this smothering.

A shudder starts to reverberate.

Cancel out

in prescription rolls.

A dull smile

the misunderstood warning sign.

Brace now for the disentanglement.

You may not know it yet;

that words

run loudly first,

then so quietly

are realized in true colors.

Steady hold to survive in the ward.

No one calls you anymore.

Many words

speak proudly,

but unmasked violently,

and underneath are broken promises.

( ❤ Mitch)


If unearthed,

examination is pedestrian.

The same words will adorn the same pages.

The dilemmas so small stacked ten feet tall

until an army of walls assembled about the frail.

Leap heavenwards and the blocks add to their ranks.

Immerse in static until noise and motion cease

where all ends and the beginning is but fable.

There’s no dare in staring danger in its teeth

knowing the fate inscribed by the fangs,

discarding remedies stubbornly,

shaking heads at weary faces,

pushing away candy and confidence for fear of reversal.

When calculated as a loss,

the numbers fall in favor.

Cold math may seal the door.

There’s no room for consideration in truth.

Passing dates are bare minimum steps,

a trudge past calendar years of unyielding fears

and a desire to place scarred bones in the review mirror.

Images are always closer than what the mind believes.

The dirty coping comes knocking on rhythmic beats.

Everything is gained in the success of surrender.

The dirty coping mechanism rears its head.

All else lost is won in the success of surrender.

Flee now,

flee fast,

but only so much space is allowed within suffocating walls.

No step ever reaches far.

The result is inevitable.

( ❤ Mitch)

Whereto Are We Met, if not Here?

I’ll never know who you were

and the concepts consigned to motionlessness.

Left in scattered pieces are a series of vacant sheets,

lines cleaned off ink’s touch.

What you’d write is unknown to me,

and the way a story could transition out of air.

Through wandering am I reunited with the nonexistent,

wondering how long it can survive.

No matter the chapter, it ceases.

Regardless of cover, there’s an end.

Detached from notes and the guidelines of reality,

I wonder how long it can survive

as hearts run out of time.

( ❤ Mitch)

Proof of Poison

Where the hell do you think you’re going?


is but imagery

toyed with in

photographic poetry:

An unreality that persists in dreams of innocence.

Scars and blood buckets must be a worthy cost

for a cause proposed in flowering tones.

Frame it on the wall where it hangs to embrace dust.


becomes fleeting

in passing graces

presented in flashes

that all but dissipate when the razors beckon

and the abyss comes to collect its toll

for betting on will too long to overcome its adversary

when will has been diminished to a flicker of itself.

Where in this plan do you find yourself stood?

Readjust if you must yet find the compass never shakes,

and a spot on a map is a spot on a map;

Another dot in a life where havens are running.

Watch as they careen over the edge,

and I wish I followed suit.

Where the hell is this intended to end?


are temporary

or shortsighted

but colored vibrant

if placed into imaginative phrasing of triumph,

depicting the demise as a definite defeat

where the loss is both a victory to claim

and the lasting impression to place into print.

A number is all that encapsulates the story.

( ❤ Mitch)

Rules of the Game

Fallen in love with an imaginary best self

floating tantalizingly close,

drifting seemingly in arm’s reach,

but to evaporate on contact.

Swoon for the nonexistent echelon

lauded incomprehensibly,

diverging perpetually,

decomposing per yearly demands.

Malleable as we are by a mutually cursed condition,

brittle in the way beautiful is always broken,

we scramble for what cannot be searched

as though we’ll be the first to find it,

only to return with hands unsurprisingly empty.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Circle of Foxes, a Staggering Rabbit

I’ll die however you see fit.

The tools are yours to choose.

By the libel of a tongue turned guillotine blade,

I’ll die however you see fit.

On a sidewalk cracked by karma’s gaze,

ensnaring tired feet onto unforgiving ground,

my steps are given a weight

like wading through the hardened concrete of mistakes.

Snapped in the jaws of a misplaced ladder,

fate will find me in the narrative you spin,

dribbling poison over a golden cup for the loyal to choke on,

hypnotized by headlines without perceiving what lies in its shadow.

My collapse is an exaggerated storybook told cross-continental.

My obituary is a Vegas bet,

the house aiming rifles to deter the unfavorable favorable outcome.

Enemies are getting paid tonight,

and I’ll die however it is deemed necessary for profit.

Transfigured into a standing, talking corpse,

I see stares that declare the dead walk the earth,

demise foretold in backroom gossip,

tucked behind makeup smiles and snake-spoken assurances,

two meanings out of one mouth uttering one sentence.

With a voice robbed of me,

I scream noiselessly against roaring crowds.

With the control evading me,

I grasp at receding figures that pivot towards the mob.

In a flurry of fiction,

I will accept death however it may come.

The choice was never mine to make.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Titanic Never Learned to Romance

It means nothing at all.

Swimming in the azure expanse that fills our distance:

The bridge between two eyes locked in place,

I’m sensing imaginary neighborhoods

while you’re paddling off the world’s edge,

searching for sunken ships that read signals incorrectly,

charging off into mythology for instant glorification,

where the curtain of nostalgia will never be pulled,

coloring wreckage in rainbows to disguise what was always broken.

It means nothing at all.

With scissors for fingers attempting to shelter a glass heart,

avoiding laying a single scratch on a fragile core,

I find my breath caught in its own tension,

suffocated at the will of the drama that unfolds as your frame undresses.

Yet a blank expression reflects back into me,

drinking in apathy and mirroring the motions,

hoping to rise a vessel from the sea’s ceaseless graveyard

as every timber grinds against my edges.

I’ve got splinters to enshrine a sinking story.

I’m left with splinters to hang memories on.

I’ve got splinters drilling teeth into my veins,

and it means nothing.

It has no single importance to you.

Dredging the depths to collect more than trodden-on sand,

tracing photographs to uncover hidden remnants of past voyages,

as the realization creeps across a worried mind

that there will be no vagrant ruins to discover,

and the truth lies in the emptiness all too clear to witness

though too intimidating to accept as the demise of a connection.

Whether a scratch crosses a glass heart or it maintains shape,

it will be noticed evermore by the man who did thusly err,

yet the core will not blink,

for it never recognized anything in front of its eyes;

Only a prey to leech.

( ❤ Mitch)

From the Shallows to the Deep

Down by the river near the eroding bank,

I watch particles float further out of sight.

Grains that serve as foundation decay as rehearsed,

accepted as the inevitable course from the cradle’s start.

As we live, flying forward,

there is less of us to know

and more of us to try and hold inside,

witnessing the abdication of our atomic selves.

As we live, enduring ruin,

there is less to expect

and more to try to remember in time,

falling inward against our graying, fading grains.

In the passage that is left in uncharted views,

the entrance is only where it is chosen to be.

Away in an undertow as cascading thoughts undo,

a body frays at the edges, unraveling, unnoticed.

( ❤ Mitch)

With High Hopes for the Future

In passing ages,

fingers begin to wither,

and a grasp that once was dependable spirals from youth.

Silently slipping through a widening leak,

the images chosen to keep are drained of luster.

Committed to conscious fabric,

we’re forever acquainted with the reality of decay;

that without a talisman’s guide,

our past eyes are a victim of the march of time.

The un-killed mockingbird makes mockery of any mind,

for creative and unimaginative collapse no differently.

Less than an empty shell is a lasting legacy

that diminishes achievement and adoration in equal measure.

Swear on a thought.

Swear on a moment.

Swear on never losing sight years from now.

Swear for remembrance.

Swear to maintain.

Sweat to forget that forgetting commences.

Stray smiles and fleeting glances fail to pass decade markers.

The small things taught to be appreciated are but faded scribblings.

The un-killed mockingbird makes mockery of memory,

leaving no glamor in passing,

only a lesson in our volatile flesh,

and that we’ve yet to realize the hands we’ll lose touch of,

though it may still be in a palm;

the embraces we’ll sacrifice the sensation of

even when in their midst.

In passing ages,

fingers begin to wither,

and a loosening grasp disappears under soil.

( ❤ Mitch)