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)

Shaded

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)

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—

decompose—

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)

Spotlight Love

Bring forth the line to center stage.

Sweat beads intermingle in the haunting glow.

Should these lights dim and this spotlight love grow,

my stress—should it surpass your test—will amount to greater heights.


Cry out names, meaningless names!

Their purpose decays in a counterfeit embrace.

Cry out names, meaningless names!

We’ll turn to stone in our mutual throes.


A pair of fractured bodies are nothing more than trophies.

Count the casualties on your fingers—the victims are statistics:

The fatalities of our sharpened fangs.


We couldn’t make love, so we constructed it out of gold and cloth

and thought a monument to such monumental failure could add up to cover the faults.

Flourish in the eyes of an adoring a crowd,

then turn around and face me,

abuse the past and weaponize me.


If the blood that runs down these streets testifies to misguided strength,

then “Not to be” it will be,

dive into the troubles deep below the sea.

I am cursed to forever remember shows that won’t go on.

Yearly reviews justify the daily excuse

that the lines on my forearms are nothing but growing pains.


Titles said were senseless, that is true; but when you defined me in romantic hues,

I was compelled to be the landscape you displayed.

Surgically analyzed my outline,

mapped it out on crumpled parchment,

limbs extending outwards pointing anywhere but heavenwards.

No one could say that you didn’t know me—my every valley.

Shakespearian deception: that halo must be proud of you.

( ❤ Mitch)

Raise Yer Heads, Gents, It Can Only Get Worse

What is holding you down on the ground when everything else is floating up?

Philosophy speaks to let go of any Earthly anchors.

I wear my expiration date on my sleeve so what’s even the point

in leaving this place behind in red and white?


Too fucked up to read between the lines or drink so that they make sense.

I’ll embrace the names of my sins:

Regret, mistake, the very worst to ever be made.

Sew it together and it’s the portrait of a man

waiting for the hurricane to engulf all.


When I held your hand, I asked you, “could this be real?”

And you looked into my eyes and said, “it’s too much to feel.”

So I’ll be buying calendars as I wait for nothing to remain nothing,

but still hoping the words you trade are always meant for me.


The greats of our time told us all to stay out of line,

think abstract and teach us to look out.

As my eyes crawl up my wrist and trip over the trenches,

as my body wrestles with the obstacles of curves and edges,

I fail to see a lesson here.

I fail to see a lesson here.


And the last words that come into your head before you are dead,

are that “the mistakes we made, make us who we are today.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Laughing Behind Much Sincerity

Tell me all the stories where the ending never comes,

and keep the torch high as ever.

How long can you keep it hanging over?

Your flames are melting your gentlemen’s mascara.

The chemicals are rushing off every page,

and after all they turn out to be just masks,

no different than the rest of the world and us.


Do the images make you feel so alone?

Maybe dead and stuffed and put in a cage for contemporary gaze.

Subscribe to the headlines and they’ll do whatever is asked of them.

Self-serving meals and waiting in your own line on your own terms.


As it always goes, the circus returns to town,

decked in the flying colors of pink and black.

Look closely, for it all blends in at the seams,

making love and loss, or so it seems.

Smack on a candy-laced smile for the clowns will come to bite.

They’ll fight for the honor of your bridal hand.

Waste no time and strike up the band.

It’ll feel so much better with their warm messes clouding up your bedroom haunts.


Hold your skirt above those expressions of disgust that make-up blocks so well.

And if I bump you in the hallway,

regard me with stories that never end,

and I’ll remind you of the thousands of ones that fell apart,

when you left my room and walked away.

When you left my room and walked away.

( ❤ Mitch)

Shake Me, Ms. Apocalypse

There is a sharp drop straight off into the ocean

with one little stone to play against the waves,

and there’s only room for one to hold their stance,

so naturally we’re both clinging on the fringes.

All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.


Animal instinct takes root at our bases:

Feast or fuck—the fight-or-flight dilemma,

and our wings got in a twist,

clipped by Dante’s wrist to a lower level.

There’s more value in the soil for scorched earth tactics.

Consider us the first casualties of concerted nonaggression,

the tops of these pots and pans boiling over the edges.


All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.

What’s it matter when there’s nothing to lose and nothing to gain?

Sink in your teeth,

claw on the wrists,

struggle for moments of breath above the surface.

A shallow sand grave follows inside each mark that’s made,

so a fleeting grace is worth the cost.


Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose distress, we’re electing defeat.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose death, we’re injecting disease.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose no more, we never left that fucking rock.

( ❤ Mitch)