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)

Austrian Love Story

Tell me that it takes the clock’s hands.

Tell me that it needs days to grow.

Pouring decaying thoughts to flowers as they morph into weeds,

could it bring to life what was said to not begin?


And I think I might have failed as I reached,

but a stray sway of mind sent my heart reeling.

Separated from reality in the synecdoche of imagination,

skyscrapers rise taller to be the walls of isolation,

since I knew I stumbled when I struggled with my throat

and out came phrases that should have stayed voiceless.


Is it you I see?

Is it you I place into nonexistent photographs?

Am I losing time sorting through imagery

when the actors have stormed off the stage?

Is it you or is it a passing phantom?

Have I gone to replace in order to repeat?


Struck silent in lessons that were never connected to life,

yet the blurring dimension of fiction spills over from its art,

damning ourselves to parallels that ever will describe shortcomings.

Tearing through notebooks,

digging through the pages,

mining the handwriting dry for relief,

and I see us standing there in between the curving pen lines

where Klimt laid us down in golden robes,

and it was sworn to be elegance.


Was he wondering about what he saw and did he know when it’d arrive?

The most empty hope hangs itself on a wire hoping for response,

but the air runs thin higher up in the atmosphere of sinking dreams.

Did he doll us up in grace?

Did he know what he had made?

Or am I picturing you again where we never could begin?


Ours is a history of mistrust.

Ours is the dried ink rubbed off on a wrist.

Washed dry at the end of a night.

It may not have ever been there.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Economics of Sand Castle Real-estate

It seems dire at first glance:

A collection of limbs made of disparate grains

sat with resignation by a shore’s invasion march,

awaiting though never pursuing a future collapse;

a temporary life.


Chipped from stone to be less than its whole,

stumbling over the bare minimum of atoms,

falling into those with scattered pieces,

and the castle that emerges rarely equals the parts;

an inelegant time.


Put stock into sand.

Is it shocking when it crumbles?

Placed trust in rusted bones.

Is it shocking when they halt?

In the freeze of oxidation coughed up from a manakin’s breath,

is it shocking to find love is as cold as was predicted?


Reflections on the lake of consciousness.

The beaches are wiped of debris,

fabric of being drifting to newfound shores

where Locke proclaims a victory.

A temporary life.


A graceful arm intertwined in a crippled companion

comes as the wistful touch of a ghost;

merely a whisper against skin,

tingling the hairs as a surge of receding light

where a spirit was buoyed by its appointed lighthouse.

It bleeds into vision clear enough to regret,

yet obscured to where it cannot be trusted.

The question of hindsight needs no and has no answer.

An inelegant time.


Remembered only in creeping phases,

the faces seen and encountered in voice.

Temporary lies in a temporary life.

New shores beckon.

The victory is short-lived.

( ❤ 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)

Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again?

To any length shall it go to validate abuse.

Deluded as it’s come to wed one to misuse.

Tired of apathy but seeing only empathy

when rehearsed phrases hurry from Hollywood mouths.


An award to give for the perfect showing.

Never could find out beyond the façade’s displaying.

Tired of mimicry but knowing only authenticity

when you’re the star of my least favorite twilight dramas.


To any length I’ll go to rationalize excuses;

that the best of me deserves acquired bruises.

Weary of all the things said and never done,

but seeing clearly how it’s all I’ve ever known.

( ❤ Mitch)

Yelling “Timber!” at a Dying Tree

The house has yet to change its shape.

Vines bide their time as the roots of recollection weasel under the floors.

Painted over in a future will never erase passion.

There was handiwork in basement fantasies.


In being careless with time and the fleeting strength of youth,

I tripped along the planks and a drop of blood was anchored;

what was spent cannot then be purchased back.


We hid our best selves under the stairs in the cupboard.

“Don’t let us out, we’re too scared.”

For if they creep out under the crack in the door,

we may be forced to recognize our collision

and the fire toyed with in the fragile fingers of innocence.

It balances on a cliff’s edge in dagger eyes.

Jump off the fear and plunge inside.

Unearth the thoughts so tightly buried.


Do you reconcile now or shall it fester in the hours burning twilight down?

With a fading vinyl record scratching itself to razor marks.

the groaning of the turning reads out a forlorn letter.

Do you face it down now or shall it wait for meetings you promise to make?

But they never wander into a calendar’s page.


Carved in triptych it can’t be seen from an outside view;

a single blemish in a valley

where the rain never touched the yellowing plain.

Caught in details I always know,

where my imperfections lie on top and below of skin.


As if a continent split itself across oceans while burning life,

I see parts of assurances drift to turbulent waves.

Go bravely into the Atlantic to chase them,

but I’m always drowning in the meaning without ever clearing from theory:

the concept of math that we shattered to bits when our whole was in negative.


Do you reconcile now or do you let it sit as dust on a window’s ledge?

Never wiped clean of footprints from testing the height.

You won’t be sleeping soundly tonight.

Do you face it down now or claim awareness of fault when the faults are repeating?

The reel never closes its lens.

Shows that stop somehow never really end.

( ❤ 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)

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)

Fiction, Friction, Addiction

A million things are meant when I hold you to my chest.

A million more arrive in the words delivered down your throat,

hoping the loose lip rivals of warships keep their tremors quiet,

and whatever could be is allowed to be

before a Sisyphean mind turns blind to chance.


A million things are meant when I write across my abdomen,

contorting the cartography into cacophonous scars,

each mark shouting a million more verses destined for dead ears,

having changed frequency years prior,

existing only in memory’s secluded channel.


A million things are meant in a forceful shove in response.

A million more erupt in how I wed myself to hypotheticals,

where the only place we find peace is where we can never be found,

locked deep in the remains of my heart,

counting shards with broken fingers.


A million less is the best from which I observe in you

and the shakes of the head to any question ever-after unanswered,

rendering what could be to never be in actuality,

blessing the word of depression as sainthood.

It’s all I ever hear.

It’s all I really know.

( ❤ 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)