Open the Blast Doors

Rip out the cord,

ending the chord of the alarm

ringing incessantly,

purposelessly,

searching for meaning

in its mounting opposition

that threatens to claw,

tearing at its heart

once inherent to one,

now made separate.

And in aftermaths in future,

in visions foreseen

in the idyllic whisps

of coffee room dreams,

the screaming is permitted to cease

and has no floor to stand on.

The supports shudder

and are no longer.

This body moves on.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Young Man Judges Paris and Paris Judges Back

You were always the best at convincing me of my best,

confining me to the dictionary definition of “naïve,”

putting my picture to be read by the watchers.

The wind carries their words on and about

until the bricks in the alleyways are singing the gossip.


It took a while to realize the funny trick you had;

their lips move but it’s your voice they sing out,

reverberating off the architecture you pinned me down in,

so systematically inclining me to lose to your march,

devoted to the steady beat of your footsteps.


It took a while to realize what you could inflict upon

when I gave you the power to inflict it all on me.

I found it poetry when you met our mouths in misdirection

and flooded my lungs with your ocean.

I spent too long inhaling,

turning drowning water into your sweet wine.

( ❤ Mitch)

Score One for the Away Team

So tragic how the body flaps in the wind.

Stretched along the mast,

made a tool of direction,

the gang who holds the helm wills reaction.


A foul front blows through the corridors of the sanctum,

hallways now marred by irrevocable verse and violation.

Steer clear,

grip the walls tightly.

Bet plywood against a hammer’s strike

and the result is another blow to the temple,

a shatter of past ordinary,

a reversal of variable.


Tragic now how it lies in snapped sinew

declared self-inflicted by the glove of the master

for an attempt to arrest confidence,

array it in monuments,

swept clean off the mantle in a careless shove.


Dissected for replacement.

Biology learns to face a new measure

until the tempo loses its satisfaction in inevitable decline.

The ordinary is past,

a change in the wind,

and the body is left to hang low.


The body is hung far.

The body hangs low.

Defeated.

( ❤ Mitch)

Had a Hole Drilled…

“Had a Hole Drilled…”

Had a hole drilled deep into the shaking framework science declared was suitable for progression in life,

notwithstanding the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething in internal, eternal decline,

ushered down the aisle as if a knot of nerves would untie itself when rolling down a rocky bank.

Comprehension is quiet behind the apathetic apathy of drifters posing as guides to lost cities:

Accept a handshake and a tug at the waist as the map and key to where Parime resides.

Confess to the condescending con-population that clutters the confines of isolation,

the painted faces of manakins belying what is under blush and bright red smiles,

set in the position of players that bowed to applause for another trick acted,

sending off the hopeful to hopeless escapades in tangled jungle’s fables:

“There is a greater purpose in promise that needs time to understand.”

Patiently forget the stains of credulous ghosts costumed in flesh.

Writhe about in nightly visitations of oaths snapped as twigs,

forever bereft of the strength it was presumed to possess.

Scramble for capsules arranged on the bedside table.

Vie to congest a widening incision with prescription.

If at its best, the stream is but limited in its scope,

yet never does it cease its eager advancement,

leaking onto sheets and disposed band-aids:

Visible distress despite lurking ignorance,

rigid versus the willfully forgetful mind,

emitting softly, always, in consistency,

slowly emptying what was never full

until all is brought to be of nothing.

Until all is fated to swift decay.

And in an unsuspecting blink,

arising to usual similarity,

it will be made

bare.

Had a hole drilled deep into the cavernous construction of uncharted tunnels leading nowhere to note,

simply the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething extracting to zero the elixir of the past,

singing the memoirs of the blue era for glorifying the loneliness inherent to productivity within art,

beautifying the parallels described as what should be warning signs of approaching instability,

though now misconstrued as the impetus of spinning wheels towards success in hindsight,

for only by collision with crooked motives is there a storied pot of gold to defy history,

where broken bones by the con-population are deserved strikes for battling truth;

the force of finding the lost by abusing the abuse incurred, glancing over trauma.

Nothing that happened was what was considered intended if ever questioned,

but in the gaze of a wounded prey observing arrow’s pricks in the mirror,

pierced defenses are the absolutes to define existence at its minimum,

recognizing finality in chasing the motivation urged in beige rooms,

characterized only by few familiar phrases in recycled delivery,

supposedly serene in sincerity’s saying to promote recovery,

now presently rendered to static rumblings exiting snakes

seeking compensation in a journey’s known conclusion,

no different than the lies of the closest confidants,

the liars, the leaders, the vultures of the desert,

dolled up in suits and dresses over beaks.

Talons poke through fabric’s guise.

Talons poke through framework.

Talons revealed in droplets

as scavengers thus leave

and bones succumb

to decomposition

and then to

obscurity.

Bare.

All the Improper Techniques

And we’ve become green in the face,

not from a flowering sensation

that blossoms in shared tongues twisting in spontaneity.

Becoming ever so green in our eyes

when choked back words are rejected

and our stomachs face an upheaval of swallowed back doubt

rocking about in the acidity of uncertainty

now eroding this tangled ground

where we tried to dismiss concern with enraptured hands.

It’s a speak or die silent scenario.

Release the hatches for the overflow,

or refuse to swim as the passion collects its toll.

Leave the door ajar to let the demons out,

or snap the key in half with our teeth.

It could last the rest of the night.

( ❤ Mitch)

Use Their Name

Enough is said about nothing,

dancing about the subject,

enlarging the object

that then directs all and none,

capturing the attention yet captivating nil.


A stray phrase spears as a needle into a bubble,

and swirling sentences suddenly uncover

a mess that must be addressed,

though our collective common sense does stress:

appease against aggressors at the gates.


Fold to obscure where edges lie.

Lay flat to smother the creases,

leaving the problems gasping for air,

swinging swords to whittle at the exoskeleton,

where mere bone and grit mark the final line of defense,

with wits at an end and control absent by its own intrusion.


Our collective common sense,

not yet uncommon to dispense,

forces belief into wounded boys scraped by stigma,

watching an elephant expand,

birthed from the unsaid, unheard, unseen,

though simultaneously the entirety of above,

written away by normalcy in beer cans,

expired manifestos,

antiquated fortresses,

preaching solitude to an empty crowd,

the chairs shattered by the silent thunder of shotgun shells.


Crowded with a collection of ammunition,

lining the counter with pellets, pills, potions,

subduing through surrender,

where a grave marker is nameless to those passing,

but a number to those reading,

proving the knowledge known but disputed by ignorance.


Enough is said about nothing,

dismissing injury as a love letter to weakness,

advocating for the loudest generation of voiceless,

witnessing screams strike in bolded calligraphy,

red tally marks adorning the wall,

counting the nameless that are rendered thusly by circumstance,

but we recall the meaning behind integers.

Faded in monochrome,

the past is more than a graphic’s siren call,

where dots on a page are grander than infinity,

plotting the poor workmanship that supports hunched backs,

using touted pillars to impose a bent knee.


Succumb and subdue through surrender.

Speak softly for fear of turning backs to the sea.

Stay little for fear of abusing a welcome.

Be staid in circumstance.

Be serene in atrophy.

We describe the meaning behind integers,

but the words find the greatest of misdirects are kept close at home.


Toying around the elephant,

all get ill,

none get ill,

and it is true in every view.

Adrift in the wake,

it was as if no one ever knew what we decided to never know.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dead Hope Kids

You crawled out of your shell and cried for the fifth time that week,

cradling the thoughts of departed on a crowded bedroom floor,

wondering if warmth really came from rubbing elbows with reminiscence.

We were sea faring warriors against the waves we made in our eruption,

knowing a collision was demise as depicted in dictionary.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

afraid the rays were the eyes of an appointed god barreling thru the front door.

Seen the newspapers in piles where the dates climb forward

but the frame that lies on the ground has yet to age a day.

Folded over are the letters lost to lovers and friends that wept but had no say

when submarines couldn’t match the depth you discovered

far below the capabilities of the ocean’s dreaming.


“Burn it down,” softly spoken voices called

where the colored dots on the windowsill failed to reach

and teach about the lessons of isolation.


You thought to cut it out was to cut to the bathroom tile,

the gray changing hue with the season as the departed returned with falling leaves,

the silver in the wastebin the dead skin you shaved off,

hoping the recollection tattooed on experience was a volcano’s mountainside;

a flood of water and nature would cover the creases,

easing the trembling,

nullifying the quaking

as you’re still shaking at the stray mention of names or places in photographs.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

cursing wordlessly at statues forever rooted in your field of vision,

and in the moment where we touched,

I knew I would never be where he stood.


The departed hold the line and you’re always afraid of looking past.

The dead have hands wrapped around your ankles.

“Fall into” the softly spoken voice starts to scream.

“Give into,” the voices are all screaming.

The dead beckon you back.

The dead beckon you back.


With legions ahead in the foyer,

there’s no rescue to the side of your bed,

where you’re shivering in the heat of cluttered memories,

and I knew I would never be where they could be,

and you were never going to be the same.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affirmations

I’m off to understand greater the frontier outside of grids.

Tracing road map signs in cursive loops,

the ways winding about geographical decay,

the arts of cityscapes a bleaker horizon daily.

Reading messages in smokestack signals,

convinced of an image in immolated dreams,

I’m left to try again at things that may never make certain sense,

but in the procession of dating archaeology,

an inch nearer waterfall drops in years,

the climb to experience is our single reminder of humanity.

You could have seen the Grand Canyon,

but never actually seen it in your life.

Past Selves in a Future Tense

I burnt down the past self

to fit into my fist;

to shake about in disagreement;

to shudder in its blows.

Captured the ash into amber

and wore it about my neck.

A world removed

made ever closer

as a tomorrow evades

in crimson sunsets resting.

Curled into a remembrance,

futures are but reflections

of a previous wanting

made a widow to satisfaction.

( ❤ Mitch)

Update: Change is a’Comin’

Hello, everyone! It’s been a minute since I posted an update here. Since the last time we talked, I achieved two big milestones: passing 300 followers on WordPress, and then passing 200 followers on Instagram! Small achievements in comparison to what others have done, but for me, these are both very big steps towards making a name for myself. As a rather unknown writer trying to establish himself, the continued support means a lot to me, and I greatly appreciated each and everyone one of you that continue to join me on my journey.

As for what comes next? The possibilities continue to endless. I still want to look into YouTube eventually, hopefully over the summer. This would bring a spoken word element to what I do, which some people have expressed interest in. I got started on my newfound poetry adventure through exposure to spoken word, so it feels natural to return to that arena.

In terms of what else is going on, I will be officially graduating from college in less than a month! It has been a very arduous task, but I am very near the conclusion of it. Ideally, finishing school will open up more freedom in my life than I have had before across the year. Being able to dedicate more time to the website, poetry, and other pursuits could really expand on what I’m capable of. I’m really looking forward to it.

Also, I have officially opened a Ko-fi account! I want to try out new things such as commissions, subscriptions, and other stuff. Many of these ideas are still in their infancy, but the commissions are live! If you would like a personalized poem written by me, you are now able to get one! You can also leave donations if you’d like. I’m thankful for all the encouragement I have already seen; it truly is special to me.

You can visit my page here!

There is also a Support Me page up on this blog.

Much love,

( ❤ Mitch)