Dagger Types

Tracing photographs,

armed to the teeth

with colored pencils,

pretending bronze plates

can be overwritten

beyond the black and white.

Outside the veil, it’s plainly seen

the face has yet to change.

Toying with the features recreates the same,

for in an eyesight’s unwavering light,

imperfections expand in view.

With words swinging from tired verse,

I attack the breaks in doctored romance.

Somewhere beneath is the lurking similarity.

( ❤ Mitch)

Papercut War Cries

Breathless, noiseless scream,

pierce the dreaming.

Charge the scene with masked monsters.

Language loses the power of description at that which defies reason.

Crept from a carpenter’s nightmare or mind’s unchecked horrors,

it lumbers into tightening hallways,

a constrictor subduing its prey,

then to vanish into the emerging light of morning,

biding time until the next episode airs in twilight’s playground.

An attempted embrace is a knife’s lunge for the heart.

Immobile faces, silent messages

cascade down a mountaintop to the jagged rocks at its base,

piling trauma on fathoms that stretch ever deeper into repressed dilemmas.

Childhood memories and discarded bumps and scrapes

form the walls of a widening maze.

Hug to the left side and end up where the beginning was.

Hug the right side and all turns equal a wrong.

A perpetual loop of paranoia spills out from an isolated spirit,

and the constrictor’s tightening coil unveils its guise as one’s own hand.

Mistrust the trust for all cards flip to reveal false.

Reality loses value when suspicious eyes blur out the numbers,

transforming hope and affection into a deal descending into the red.

Noiseless screaming can murder a fear for a night,

but it unravels in cosmos,

swallowing up star rays as a self-imposed black hole.

Searched in astronomy and the map is blank,

yet it cannot be denied a beast is loose in a personal galaxy.

Crossing over skies,

enveloping Triangulum,

logic cowers versus its opposite.

Roots run dry daily without the compass of time.

A dead season comes guaranteed.

Forgotten in turmoil is the fiction inherent in a weary head,

yet nothing matters with disease at the controls.

Push away an outstretched arm.

Relapse into redefined confines.

The lying world is said to stay outside,

but it’s never known if it wasn’t inside all along.

( ❤ Mitch)

Poetry and Honesty

Choose carefully.

Spoken unwisely,

imperfect phrases are bare as they are,

faulted in of themselves,

destined to depart in the conscious of instant gratification.

A bottle’s flood tells too much,

and when written in restraint’s absence,

an author’s dried ventricles are spent and nothing is meant.

The locked chest deals everyone out a key,

trading glances about a plastic face knowing its lack of veracity.

Loom over the artist in the glass,

begging for the aftermath,

playing games with what-ifs as tension swells in tumultuous waves.

Drop a curtain on a Hitchcock drama and away goes suspense.

The person and the pen scurry from their reflections,

strangers to one another.

To venture from the looking-flask or demand its silence

comes short of answering any inquiry to a vessel’s schematics,

as encased in continuous trauma as it now rocks,

could it or should it ever let its creaking floorboards be heard?

With rusted nails unhinged around every bend,

Noah hung his head at the inelegant schematics,

drifting in from imaginary to meet creativity’s fleeting fantasy;

two dreams meaning too much,

equaling to less in evaluation.

It’s never honest with myself yet too close for comfort.

Words conjure imagery but the memory is disintegrating.

All is chosen cautiously haphazardly.

The sole truth is a bottle is broken,

a flood is brewing,

and a captain drowns.

( ❤ Mitch)

There Were Several Apologies

Have I interrupted?

Did I dare to intrude without knowing

despite the writing on the floor?

I thought I was meant to explore.

I thought there was something more.

But I entered as if my page was unintended.

Have I disrupted?

Should I have known the pieces to play?

You’re shouting “checkmate,”

but I wasn’t aware of my place on the board.

A bleeding heart seems to make you bored

as if my aching was only a distraction.

Am I the martyr?

Did I become the cause to nail up?

The practice in archery dressed as an apple,

and your tells are firing imperfectly perfect.

Whatever disaster I witness in my chest,

you’d rather blame on me and I don’t fight it.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Artist Against the Observer

I see elegant swipes,

dances in moonlight

across empty landscapes

filled with only tangled bodies

enjoying a private canvas

of intertwined starlight:

A mirror of imagery I pull from the romantics.

You see the blankness

without its name.

You’re drawing conclusions

while I’m scratching in annotations.

You enjoy a private canvas

as the sum of its parts:

The product of the romantics detached from our age.

( ❤ Mitch)

Mental Geography

There’s a house by a lake

only in a private head.

Could I let you in by the side?

There’s a life inside.

Rooms to furnish and paint.

Could I see you there?

There’s a place to stay

carved into my hollows.

Could you fit the crater?

There’s a hope to cultivate

somewhere in the fields.

could you feed the light?

There’s a house by a lake

tucked in my own head.

Will I be joined here

or will the waters rise?

( ❤ Mitch)

Obstacles & Obstacles

Fire and brimstone take the wheel of imagination.

Let the devils claim the hindmost of the ensuing turmoil.

Shaken at a crumbled conscious’ failed foundation,

the saints come marching dressed in decades-old clothes,

not a day aged since captured in memory’s stone,

committed to fantasy where demons are blessed friends,

true colors henceforth cloaked in rosy-sweet prose,

thus shifting the villain to that of the writer’s own hand.

Two halves are made split between hope and concrete,

Rodin portraying agony in its barest form of observation,

with opaque faces aligned on an opposite shoulder

cast as the Greek deities to lord over tragedy’s incessancy,

aglow in marble’s beauty—a philosopher’s Trojan Horse,

for the most dependable and clearest of the given moment

never fail to be those to draw blades foremostly,

sucking dry the emotion host to reap rewards of attachment,

as the carcass is forgotten under decades of clay.

Two halves be split between a reality’s curse and wistfulness,

wishing traitors to be the friends promised prior

or at the least a lesson from which to grow as a redwood,

taller and stronger to fight back against an axe’s blow.

Yet the curse of reality dictates learning is never guaranteed.

An education in trauma comes without certain victory.

The Greek deities of melancholic prose or hateful poetic rants

come to the forest armed with bulldozers aplenty.

Caught in a divide where fractions of being are cut cleanly through

and neither perspective can be known to the other,

ensuring nostalgia will reign over insecurity’s sprawling domain,

and two halves be split to never adequately meet.

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)

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)

Observations in a Sea of Dead Saplings

Fighting to let your trunk grow tall.

Carving a place in the deep dark light.

Suckling on the touch of gin won’t offer purchase in the soil,

yet a fleeting vagrant took the role of the sun.

Drips from his bottle leave behind a garden of graves.

There’s no shovel big enough to unearth a semblance of solace.

I’ve got the warning signs of history etched into,

and I weave it into parchment as a message for your heart.

My body is the map of dead-end dilemmas,

the conduit for a misguided rage,

cutting holes and folding over creases to invent nonexistent escapes.

My body is the map to follow as I unravel.

The canyons of handheld glaciers are a lesson in twisted geography.

There won’t be profit earned from willing flaws into existence.

Sitting in depths where arms cannot reach down,

you’ve penned the story prematurely,

using words to paint a self-portrait of a target:

The Kezia of a rampant apathy that drains its passengers,

dropping off the remnants in a junkyard.

Are you proud to lay in a garden of graves?

Is it a pleasing fate to let another feast on your rays?

Has it been wasted time to stretch out surgically for a gaze

that saw nothing but a passing billboard sign,

driven by and never noticed?

Starring over scarification that endures through cycling years,

I wonder if it lasts forever as an artillery shell’s cave.

How far and long the struggle has gone,

and it doesn’t mean a single thing yet.

How far and long you’ve started to slip,

and I find no solace in any of it.

( ❤ Mitch)