Infinite Happy Endings

Back in the far reaches pretended to be extinguished,

there’s an itch notched in the back of the cranium.

Shake at the thought when the pinch is close,

bouncing to and fro between closed eardrums.

Isolate the aspect and dissect the process.

Blanket over kitchen items with cherry-colored candies;

Sour as they slide, no sweetness in the mind.

Choke an apple a day; no more no less

to smile the treatment away.

Watching the worth of a waistline increase,

but the plague of fatigue steps in tow.

Stuck in a tailspin described as an allergy.

It will pass and no trace will remain,

much like the remnants of wreckage cascading from a crash.

Tendrils of the rift swallow to irrelevance.

Hold no clothing nor possessions nor fellow hands nor brethren.

Kept in nadirs never seen and never visible,

there’s never a smile that’d remain in a torn breast pocket.

A leaking heart wears itself too blindly

and pins dust on its veins to try to clog the cuts,

binding discard to discord for makeshift warmth.

Back in the far reaches laid bare for personal doubt,

there’s an itch notched in the back of the cranium.

Blanking out on another nostalgic drug,

swearing names out that have become dead to mine.

Wrap up the torture in cherry colored bandage,

shine bright to the dark, shut the courage off at dawn,

call the lingering instance of light a process.

Swing the head back and load up the magazine.

Cock the loaded trigger and spout out singsong.

The taste of each phrase sleeps sour on the tongue,

dripping ill optimism to splatter over pessimism.

At the first sound from the morning alarm,

dress for success to utter nothing new again.

Dripping ill optimism to splatter over pessimism.

Infinite happy endings all concluding to nil.

Caught in the tedium and subsequent delirium between closed eardrums.

Slide it back and sense the bitter bite.

No coat of armor blocks an attack from inside.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, Finale

You said

to be someone;

to be who I had always been,

though tucked behind an actor’s skin.

You said

to be honest

to the friends that never leapt;

those that held fast in firing lines.

How quickly it all was sacrificed when playing the role of God,

twisting the hands of time to combat conspiracy.

I was a fool then.

I’ve the same foolish head now,

but lately it’s found a center,

buoyed to one last reality that halts wayward destiny.

These trajectories now meet.

Call it science or call it fate.

Call it whatever needed to create

our hands holding close in a window’s dull glow.

Call it genius or insanity or calculated,

call it whatever needed to create

our lips brushing lightly in the reversal of memory.

Enraptured by a second condemned to expiration,

left fully formed in the depths of a conscious traveler,

I wonder if these constructs of the hippocampus are but hollow rooms,

the scenery drenched in grays illuminated by a mind’s touch,

but they’re never to be shared by the others who were there.

Brushing lightly in the present,

all but simple acquaintances,

half aware and half unaware.

I wonder if you’ll ever know.

I hope you’ll someday know.

Steins Gate | Okabe Rintarou meets Makise Kurisu 'Cristina' Again | Last  Episode - YouTube
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

Thanks for reading! I know this was a long one, but I had fun revisiting one of my favorite shows of all time 🙂

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 5

To correct it all;

to steal away the pen of history,

the coup of the author would be worth flawed flesh.

Imagery of tyranny leaves no impact.

An objective flies directly from a heart to the bearer of its chain

to which I am devoted to bet the last of all energy.

Let wills dissolve into laser’s precision.

Enough remains for two chances at salvation:

The excavation of normalcy turned fantasy when buried under impulses.

Tragedy nips at the heels; ignore it.

Mistakes are computed to an ultimate act of loss; move past it.

Of a million routes carved into history,

one deserves the barrage brewing inside me:

The lasting act of a character on stage.

A fratricide blinds the eyes of the fortunately ignorant,

made a feature drama as a man’s scorn drills a hole into a daughter.

Encased in shock with limbs halting in motion,

a mad scientist must come to action.

Immaculate improvisation.

Fates and forces out of mankind’s deft hand are ever so elusive.

The leader of the gate,

the seer of diverging matrixes;

he is the one to hold the key to any reality.

The irony forever dawns in the unrelenting knowledge of effects,

where the movement of the savior caused the ripples he now adjusts.

It would have to be the worst of all great minds to err so,

though never faltering as foes arched arrows into the castle.

The leader of the gate paves the way.

Destiny’s eyes can be tricked by theatrics.

The final cost comes in blood and I’ve it all to spare.

I’ll submerge beneath a rising haven.

None more will see or know the name that allowed it to soar.

Seeing life erupt in eyes once prophesized as closed,

I’ll submerge beneath my masterwork.

Distant regimes topple into forgotten chronology,

but the magnum opus is you and I.

I need no praise beyond this point of ascension through descension.

I’ve found a purpose in bleeding out.

To live or to falter at the gate,

I no longer feel a need to pretend.

I know now who I always was.

I am he who holds the key:

The leader of the gate.

Steins;Gate Opening HD on Vimeo
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 4

Blood runs on these hands.

Blood dries on these imperfect hands.

Blood stains this shadow of a man forced to pretend.

Contrite laughs by a grave revelation

have bound a soul to disguise himself out of desperation.

I am the character on stage armed with theatrics,

allowing white coats to cloak a thinning veneer.

A glass construct shudders at its base.

Piece it together with your arms as a fortress.

Struggling in a cityscape unphased by its lurking trauma,

piece me together as my machinery decomposes.

My constant companion, unaware as you are,

carrying the weight of a collapsing structure,

instilling confidence forgotten in the next travel backwards,

yet never absent from my mind,

cursed to remember every scene of every outcome.

Caressing now amidst a concluding drama,

is it fair now to say we’ve won?

Observing the repercussions of undoing foolish consequences,

desire flatlines in favor of a once undesirable status quo,

where a microwave meant nothing more than the sum of its parts.

The cords have been untangled.

A smile regains its shape.

But a snag—

a gear caught in transition—

a jarring realization—

innocence flickers out of focus,

a glitch in convoluted reality.

An explosion seemingly years past resonates in the now.

The now is nowhere near safe.

A line is caught on an error of existence;

a flaw of life when its destination had been decided—

a glitch in convoluted reality.

Of all futures,

one is a victory only Pyrrhus would accept.

One is certain defeat;

the utter destruction of me in every outcome.

The now is nowhere near safe.

Makise Kurisu must die.

I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 3

Immaculate are the schematics,

but failure stalks among the details.

Measure the second hand,

mark the precise point of departure.

The lesson is nullified upon the winding of time.

Adding selfishness to subtract the joy of others,

I cannot trust even the neighbor selling lies on the bottom floor.

Operating only on the diminishing flame of insanity

as a tunnel narrows,

the light succumbing to a constricted hope.

Wave goodbye to a doomed voyage.

Accept the resignation of falling short.

Every impact leaves an irreparable dent on this sinking frame.

Sucking dry the flower of optimism bred in by foolish dreams,

it cannot be the fault of yours.

What I would do to hold and console,

allow reserves to crumble into the ash of burnt imagination,

yet trapped in the hell of purgatory may I always be found.

In each relapse to destiny’s prologue,

a flash of red hair sneaks into my eye.

In pieces scattered across fluctuating worlds,

she remains ignorant of how she reconstructs my puzzle.

Reassurance is forgotten in the blink of a condemned endeavor.

She always returns to draw color into blanks.

In every action there have been reasons to abandon,

and through experience I cannot comprehend why anyone would save me.

I only know that a second chain is growing in my depths.

In shadows of self-imposed dilemmas,

crawling from exit to entrance;

a loop straight to a runaway escape,

she always returns,

and I find new strength.

I do not own this image

(<3 Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 2

Continuously extinguished.

I watch anguished at unshakable fate.

Shackled to the will of time,

she slips into the cracks between conflicting lines.

No greater force exists that I would never bear,

but attempts are fruitless versus the paradox I created.

Worried are all that see a slow descent towards surrender.

They cannot know the danger faced.

They can never see.

A sight once so clear is mired in future deaths.

The butterfly’s wings have been rendered to shreds,

peeled off surgically to fulfill human impulses.

Must I reverse all and erase what brought growth?

Have I come to hold the hammer that strikes down all creation?

Ushering a father to his grave,

a child back to their isolation,

a rebel into endless woe;

is this the cost that must be paid?

To drag a weary soul back to its brink where emptiness awaits;

is this the cost that must be paid to see your smile?

To feel the warmth residing in the room

that marches valiantly in a life built of lies and posturing,

I’d slice off every limb if only to hear your laugh.

Brilliance is the haven out of reach.

Painfully aware now how far below I am.

If drifting into rifts cut into reality’s fabric,

a single chain linked to the center ensnares a wavering heart.

I would pay the cost to return to that realm.

I will pay the cost to know happiness again.

Madness be damned.

Precious Mayuri and Okabe : steinsgate
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(<3 Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 1

Call it happenstance.

Call it determination.

Call it destiny preordained.

I am stood here all the same.

Call it genius.

Call it insanity.

Call it calculated.

I measure to the same failure.

Is it per my hand

or per my will

or per the pain of others

that I am henceforth pushed forward?

Driven by desire

and driven back by the selfsame urges

as reality itself bends.

I was familiar

and am now made alien,

venturing to known lands rendered unknown,

and the fault requires ownership.

At the head of a vessel

now spiraled out of control,

who am I to say I am not the one at blame?

Smothered by the demise of dreams

and the strangling of security

brought to fathoms below in a muzzle’s flash

or sliced in the aftermath of a car crash,

I alone bear witness.

I alone possess the guilt.

I alone am stranded between a creeping future of wrongs

and a reality I avoided.

Steins;Gate Ep. 13: Fate | Moe Sucks
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Product Nears its Expiration Date

What do you think you’re doing crawling out of your box?

We tucked you in so nice and neat,

cutting pinprick holes into this carboard shell just so you’d barely breathe.

Through each gap there’s space enough to cram through enough to satisfy.

Chug down the dose, the hope, the realizations, and call it even on the day.

Categorized, stereotyped,

we’ve drilled a label into your abdomen.

Ostracized, paralyzed,

accept the placement provided.

Do you want to be mad?

Who do you think deserves a wayward pointing blame?

Do you want to be mad?

Who’s the target?

Slash out when a sad man approaches and scratches sprout from your knee.

Analyzed and monitored and pushed out with an assurance and guaranteed debt.

It all seems as though the puzzle was figured out.

This is where you’re meant to follow along.

Do kindly fold your hands together in the face of diagnosis.

So you want to be alone?

You said you couldn’t bear the thought.

So you want to be alone?

How about you stay alone?

And we stand back to watch you toil as you twist away in a cage,

built for you and made with material you provided.

Context is the content of the gray matter that’s been mined empty.

Scream at a blank screen that isn’t answering back.

Worry not, all else have been informed your number’s next in line.

A single drop of blood is a postcard to Hades announcing a ticket purchase.

Maybe you should crawl back to where you came from,

back to where it’s safe.

There was a real world looking in when you were busy looking out

Maybe you should scramble into where your bed has been made.

We wrote the script for you.

We wrote the script for you.

Do you want to be mad now that you’ve got what you wanted?

A little floodlight can hover over the tomb at night.

That small hope must keep burning bright.

You’ll be dragged to the end without a sound.

Until then you’ll spend until you dry.

( ❤ Mitch)

Touring Our Future Tragedies

On the edges of the sidewalk she’s spiraling,

sending a numbed mind pirouetting down the boardwalk,

bouncing from every open door like a pinball without a course,

sinking into any empty bar stool that beckons her over.

I’m tethered to where fear tells me not to go.

With dragged footsteps I’m thrust around every dark corner.

We fall and stumble and march and step forth but we aren’t falling deeper together.

To the balcony she’s caught swaying,

saying she’s spotted the Golden Gate bridge and the waving water

lapping up against her ankles as if Atlantis called from beneath,

promising respite for a weary traveler.

Faulty heartwork machinery prints desire out for the mind to follow.

I bear the same cannonball she cradles to her chest.

We trip and tumble and forge on and forward but we aren’t coming closer together.

In the shaded bedroom haunts she’s hiding,

claiming discovery of personality in manufactured throes,

driving up and down streets that forgot her name,

visiting faces that forgot their duty to not turn about,

calling Atlas names for holding the world up when he should have let it drop,

and she could’ve taken a swan dive off to a finality frontier.

But she exists in still frames of a head on a shoulder blade,

propping her dancing body upright as she sails around the tables.

I promised myself to never blink in the case I’d lose a single illustration of happiness.

But she only exists in still frames of a head on a shoulder blade,

and I’m trying to chase Jesus down a bottle of pills.

Stare off into the azure abyss and it sits silent and still as a blanket,

as unassuming as a force could be.

“Dive into Atlantis to find me.”

A selfish part of me clung to the cables like a dying leaf grasping its tree branch.

We fell and stumbled and marched to our beat but we didn’t fall deeper together.

( ❤ Mitch)

Tumble Down the Highway

Sleepless at morn, shadows under eyes,

stumbling from the foot of the bed to the pantry pill box.

Hazy with thoughts gnawing like gnats

orbiting about, catching momentum from incessant worries.

Drunk now from the sense of dullness

reaching from the blank page and injecting its will.

And the happy faces around will always speak the same repeated lines:

“The peak is in the background.

The golden days are graying out.”

And they’re always around the cul-de-sac of ethereal realms,

waiting to play as if the hours were rendered motionless.

I could be out in that memory’s sun and bask in the fading light.

The cracks of winter would be shed in the decaying glow.

Instead I sit up, a pitch-black sky,

monitoring the minutes passing by as rest evades grasp.

Hazy with thoughts gnawing like gnats

that gang about the ugly sphere of unyielding insecurity.

Curled up now, back arching down,

scrambling for a crevice to bury into and feel a permanence of warmth.

The visions bleed into ash if I’m careless and blink too fast.

Mist clouds the irises.

The ink washes off the script.

Phrases gush over the edge of the table and outline a pit in the floorboards.

I could sink into it and find the nothingness of a plotless conclusion.

But there’s a wave in the distance from a passing crowd,

laughing and calling from a rusted street sign.

Holding out a hope now on a chopped tree limb; no one is looking back.

Holding out a far hope to snag another’s hand; the chill of seasons rejects.

I know a name or two but I fear I’m losing it in the mist.

I want to keep one or two of you but I can’t see through the mist.

Sleepless again, shadows grow long,

tracing an empty frame since abandoned by its host soul.

Hazy with thoughts gnawing like gnats,

and with quiet resignation I let them crawl into my mouth.

( ❤ Mitch)