Dreamhouse

Refusal of a farewell to picket fences.

Adjusting the metrics of memory to compensate for loss.

Exclude present thought for a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

a past fit only for dolls.


Dressed up in expectations expired,

luring in for discovery with bright walls and passion calls,

visiting rooms of unborn embodied by industrial recollections.

Current views through the mirror scrape off the paint.

Relevancy infuses disease into the bones of a home.


Out of state to the rhythm of children’s footsteps

as they rove about a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

inhabitants fit in a vision of us

that died in a closed door,

severed phone conversations;

hurried steps from the imaginary.

( ❤ Mitch)

You Will Always Lose

It rummages about,

rampaging in the dark clarity of slumber,

rifling through shelved ideas.

Cluttered it comes to be

half-past acceptance of being awake,

half-before the sun’s encroaching glare.


In perfect lighting,

Shadows thrive in ignorance,

undiscovered by the myth of lucidity.


Catharsis denied in dampened returns to the bed,

unclean by the shocked, sweat-stained rhythm

of a figure rising to prepare a fall

into the corridors of the lurking expectations,

rummaging about in imperfect theater;

the impetus of inevitable disappointment.

( ❤ Mitch)

Under an Unmarked Headstone

Recall the taste of mulch.

Tumble down at a show of force.

Wandering fingers twitch at the feeling of familiar dirt.

Does it linger there in the backstage

where the looking-glass man cowers in bandages,

tied tight to trauma it never knew was there?


The playground barons and the pavement kings

camp out in the hippocampus with a smoldering fire.

Sixty dollar checks direct a hose to the scene;

they pick up their belongings,

shift to an elsewhere,

lighting a recollection when nothing can brace the shock.


Shove off masters of the belt as conquest begins,

a fake Napoleon spreading flags across the continent of consciousness.

Bounce off to out of sight, ought of mind,

and his unrequited rage reflects back in lost hours of sleep,

soldiers digging trenches under eyelids

where the scarification of skin fails to heal lingering craters.


Does it remain never-fading?

Does it still come as the arctic cold,

racing across the spinal cord as a torrid freeze?

No shield protects the skeletal frame from crumbling under its head’s weight,

bearing the brunt of remembrance it cannot withstand.

The lashes at night are no longer a dream.

The faces that torment no longer cease.


Shiver at night with no mouth to speak,

and nothing remains but a voiceless scream.

Nothing to be done except play roulette with pill rounds.

Turn it over and over and over again.

( ❤ Mitch)

Count the Errors

On a daily

sliding scale,

where are you found?

Which statistic is speaking

at the direction of a finger’s assertion?

Now as it wavers in air,

dwindling to the side

of a sliding scale,

where are you?


On a daily

mounting dosage,

what sector of mind talks?

In reoccurring conversation flow,

a distance transforms the self and its killer,

placing the latter at center focus

as the former is escorted off,

restrained for examination,

picked apart.


On a daily

slipping grasp,

how do you balance?

When the edge is excavated,

scraped off by a scalpel’s ill intent,

do you collapse for more?

Perhaps seek another

ready ledge to cling

and breathe.


On a daily

concluding scene,

have the credits rolled?

Scrolling through insomnia’s throes

in the decaying glow of an opened window,

has an escape route been uncovered?

Does it flash in memory?

Still it drags on,

repeating.


On a daily

sinking story,

what will bail you out?

The buckets have holes drilled in.

The savior’s been tossed off to drift,

and his gift was only a sour taste

that lingers on the tongue

and deeply drops

a sliding scale.

( ❤ Mitch)

Thoughtpiece: Hitting 200!

Well hello again, everyone! It feels as though I was only recently posting about how I had hit 100 total followers on my humble blog here. I had never expected to reach such a milestone as quickly as I did, and yet it seems as though the website has experienced continuous growth since then. It truly is a surprise, but I am so very thankful for everyone that stops by, reads what I put down to paper (or Word doc… potato pahtahto!), and leaves a follow or a like. To the you, my fair visitor, it probably doesn’t mean much. To me, it is an incredible gesture. Every follow is another step towards one day making a living out of my passion for writing. That is a difficult goal to reach, naturally, and I am acutely aware of how far away exactly I am from even scratching the surface. However, I approach that objective bit by bit daily, which is all thanks to those that have supported me and continue to do so.

So, where do we go from here? I suppose it’s important to update my general life situation, as I am currently in a position that complicates my usual posting regiment. I am currently enrolled in my final year of college, with my major being in the education field. Because of this, much of my morning routine is spent instructing students or hurriedly making lesson plans to try and get by in life. It is only slightly (read: absolutely) stressful! One downside of this is that I cannot reliably get my material out on time, and I’m occasionally so burnt out mentally that it’s difficult to engage with writing overall. Essentially, my productivity is being hampered by the unfortunate responsibilities of an extraordinarily tiresome career choice. I’m going to be doing my best to keep up, so I hope you understand if I falter a bit. I’m counting down the days to graduation, where I will hopefully be done with all things related to college and education. I learned far too late that I have no desire to teach, and institutions do a laughably poor job of preparing people to do so. For now, I just gotta push through until I get my magic paper and move on to the next chapter of life.

I am still going to be here and I’m still going to be writing; I just cannot guarantee that it will be as consistent as observed in prior months. These following weeks are going to be a certain test of my strength, which is not even mentioning the fact that what I plan to do with my future is completely nebulous. Thank you all that are reading this for sticking with me through this period, and I sincerely hope you continue to do so! I still keep myself busy by submitting to magazines, tossing out new poetry ideas, jamming to music, and posting reviews, so all is not dire! I’ve also recently acquired a microphone as a belated Christmas gift. Though I’ve yet to use it, this opens up a lot of possibilities for how I can exhibit my content going forward. Considered my background in spoken word, I’d definitely enjoy crafting a YouTube channel to diversify what gets posted, adding a performance element to my works. I’ve never shared a choice few pieces here due to their design being tailored to a live setting, or at least a particular vocal delivery. These could see the light of day if I dive into another large media market.

If you’ve made it this far: thank you again, sincerely. I know I repeat that a lot, but I genuinely am touched by the increase in activity I’ve seen here. It has given me confidence in my poetry that I never had before. Most importantly, it has demonstrated to me that it perhaps IS possible to carve out a niche with my creative endeavors. I’m not naïve enough to assume it’s a sure thing or that I’m really anywhere near such an achievement. I knew going into this WordPress website it’d be a longshot that could easily fizzle out in a few weeks, off into obscurity like so many others before me. But I am going to try, and I have the courage to roll the dice. I appreciate each and every one of you that are along with me for the ride.

Much love,

❤ Mitch

There will be a new poem up in about 2 hours, so stay tuned 🙂

Ebb and Decay

Static in motion

                yet kept so still

                                in illusion of

                                                a form of progress

                                illustrated thusly in

                scattered carpet lines

wherein a kitchen blade

                was poking holes

                                playing pretend skin

                                                with a hunger for flesh

                                that plays its hand

                                                at a game of resistance

                                                                ebbing further cliffside

                                                                                until a precipice glistens

                                                                and a prey’s eye

                                                turned hesitant killer

                                catches a stray glimpse

                and a dormant compulsion

discovers a rebirth

                with maroon dreams

                                and dances with razors

                                                plotted delicately in fantasy

                                                                as spun by desperation

                                                and concluded as solution

                                                                by migration from the floor

                                                                                and jagged worry marks

                                                                towards definite indefinite

                                                                                outside of conscious bounds

                                                                                                where motion is irrelevant.

( ❤ Mitch

Dissected Attention Span

Hers was a fatal nothing.

Stretched across to negate awareness,

a back is pressed to the wall,

scratched delicately with fingernail signals.

Savored sensation

absent of substance;

inundation through imagination,

searching for more in laughter than reaction.

Caressing impressions ethereal,

mere mites on a mind

lacking conscious form to compose itself,

registering desire in tandem with attention,

in purgatory perpetual,

undermined in persistence.

The foe is an unspoken encirclement,

existent in the air between bodies

so meticulously intertwined

without ever been close from the start.

Crown the Kings of the Taproom

Gray slate has no reflection to state.

Penciled in are the features I know of you,

but nothing’s to show that speaks of a person.

Were it a mirage, none would blink twice.

Pressed into a walking statue makes no difference

when placed into the populace of a city of naught but stone,

where the self is rendered nil,

satisfied in its barest form of a predatory instinct.


Follow the fermented pool wherever it leads,

passing thru stranger’s doors for the promise of escape,

digging into the trenches of a barstool to stake out the closing time.

A final drop is a disappointment.

An empty hand must be a fallacy.

Clamor for the coming round as Malthus brings his thumb down.

There’s never enough to feast upon.

Disregard that which compels pause.

Everything is false and the hunt is where truth lies.


I no longer perceive whoever you could have been.

I no longer know what I shared with.

A car door slam accompanies a squeal towards the night,

dragging my ribcage behind as its thrashed about,

tugging out ligament by ligament until firmament empties.

And in the carnage, I’ll caress the carnal urge to be subjected to,

having spied the edge of the bottle’s domain and strayed clear.


Plunge me in.

Drown me in.

About without the thought of me.

Plunge me into the meaninglessness of mine.

Drown me in the impact I’ve lacked.

It’s clear I’m the losing half.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Villain Has a Butterfly Net

On a proper dose,

I’m blinking through the fogged windows,

having clarity when viewing the shapes of your arms

and the damage done by a scavenger’s talons.


Left scratched up in the far side of the ward,

there wasn’t a phone ringing.

Despondently turned towards the infinite blankness of white walls,

you brushed your fingers across my palm

and swore this had to be forgotten,

and if there were any vultures peaking under the door,

the story that’d come out would clip away your wings.


Shaking in an unstable state,

I felt I turned to paper in the plea you made,

softly resting on the tiles without a heart of gravity.

Peering through the spyglass of a drained capsule,

I saw you as the pen writing the narrative out;

two shattered bottles of ink embracing in the crash,

focusing thought to bring a solid out of a melting dream.


Yet in a flash that reflects back to me from the black,

a carnivore’s face is bursting through the hospital,

and his blazing eyes are locked into your stare.

Yet in a flash that reflects back to me as I tremble,

I spy ten thousand lies described on the shadows dwelling on my face.

We could trade our scars for a chance to pass the stars.

I’d tear and twist the fabric of our foes

to build the escape that’d see us careening out of step,

but so dangerously alike in the limp that plagues our wrists.


I couldn’t promise then if the door was wide enough.

I couldn’t promise then there’d be no letting go.

I couldn’t promise then and I can’t promise now,

but I’d wish more than anything to take you home.

Nurse the power left in those beating wings.

There’s a chance in space where spinning out is ever closer.

For this, I’d charge through debris with you,

further every mile away from the sway of a vulture’s preying.


On a proper dose,

I see the handle turning

as you take a plunge outside.

It was as if I never knew you.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Boy, in Parts

Truth comes foul

when the comfort of falsehood

loses footing in reflection,

geometry proven irregular in critique

with wanting eyes plowing for faults.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

tripping over cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.

Dead-end motives

seek the next trial

to fall first, headlong,

losing by default in absent glances

where lust swings wild,

its direction uncaring for appearances

like cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

enraptured by the rupture

cleaving through action and reason.


Desire comes aimed for the aimless;

quick fix dilemmas.

Lipstick scars

bandaging the whispers of displeasure

until withered

as plastic roots undo,

support decayed in reflection

when wanting eyes see only “no” as an answer.

( ❤ Mitch)