Model Citizen Living in a Model Town

Here comes the fall down.

Lower the body finds itself,

ever further than prior reaches,

in ceaseless descension to bottommost echelons.


A decline to rockier bases,

fistfuls of gravel for fruitless climbing to discover an edge.

Disheveled surfaces reduced to window dressing.

Sharp intonations of agony at the behest of jagged crevices

are the cushions at the end of a day’s struggle towards the dawn’s glimmer.

Wounds proceed unreconciled,

but a facet of reality of regions beneath,

unable to be noticed as more than a breath’s absent purpose.


Braced for the cyclical tumble wrapped in self-pity,

post-it note therapy,

ugly coping weapons to pave over discard,

the burn of asphalt solutions an unclean reunion at trauma’s doorstep.


Awake in awareness of a faltering glow.

Depleting sustenance births serrated ideas

sliding hacksaws along a troubled staircase winding wherever else,

never attainting anywhere else;

a regression to starts that never truly begin,

and endings accelerate to their rehearsed consequences.


Serrated ideas impose a warforged hold,

prowling the lanes of asphalt solutions,

shuttering infrastructure that desperately cloaks shattered frames,

stores emptied of reserves in a cry for rationing,

all the brightness cascading to a familiar background bereft of aspiration.


It concludes to commence again.

In this, it is a failure of being.

It is an acceptance of the mediocrity of normalcy.

Off to experience sunsets in negative;

A failure to live.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Fix Me Up, Darling!

Dimly lit

cause & effect scenarios.

Invisible hand guiding.

Shapeshifters of fluctuating fantasy.

Cyclical lack of drama

to salvage the twilight

when the doldrums await in the morning

as they always have and always will.


Escape to an escapade,

disguises handed liberally,

history abused sufficiently,

drained of potential impermanence.

It sits in the bed to wait.

It twists its toes in anticipation.


The doldrums are calling for a punch in,

beckoning per usual.

Dim the lights,

decompress,

and remember the guilt

the moment after the joy.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Update: Present, Future, All of the Above

Well, hello there. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve checked in here, hasn’t it? After attempting to return to my usual posting habits, I lost track of things and inevitably shifted heightened focus to my Instagram habits. However, at a certain point, I would definitely enjoy offering new poems on here on a regular basis. There’s still plenty I have yet to share and many more that I am still creating, so there’s certainly no shortage of material to sort through. What it currently boils down to is a matter of establishing a routine, regaining consistency, and then maintaining both of those factors.

Outside of this resolve, I have a lot of news to share. Primarily, I’d like to introduce you all to a novel aspect of my creating journey: a shop! A few months back, I began a series of drawings with accompanying poems on larger slices of paper. These could then be fitted into a small picture frame for display. I’ve decided to move forward with my initial hopes of selling them by using KoFi’s built in store capabilities. As of right now, four of the eight Frames series pieces are available on the shop tab! Each one possesses a unique poem and drawing, handmade using pen ink.

Secondly, to circle back to my Instagram account: I am nearly at 1,000 followers! This milestone would be impossible without massive support from the poetry community of WordPress and Instagram. I owe my thanks to all of those that have shown such incredible support throughout this journey, as you are all the reason why I continue to aspire for greater things. I greatly enjoy writing, and because I have encountered so many amazing people by doing so, I feel more motivated to push onwards. Hopefully this goal can be hit by the end of the year! That’d be an absolutely insane gift.

To those that still check this website; you are awesome. I know I am very unreliable these days when it comes to getting new content up here, but I can assure you that I’ll get around to it soon enough. A lot of stuff is changing, and there will be further projects to come. Thank you for sticking around. Time to close the year off strong!

~

(Mitch <3)

Grave Gospel

All hail to the pyrrhic vitriol.

Invest in the injection of independent venom.

A high’s temporary grace in bitten ankles,

breaking the arms of armistice in bombshell declarations.

Arguments versus the severity of uncertainty,

imbalanced by bridge diving ideals.


All thanks to the victory of circumstances,

Appeased to the inglorious made glorious.

Induced into be the imaginary reality

where harm relapses are the savior kings.

Cede away the necessary corners to imperial greed,

the self deconstructed imprecisely.


Away to the current light of day.

In slumber now inside the drugged past,

prancing about dreamscapes alien to actuality;

a happy factory prison given false meaning

in the decaying light of dead calendar years,

the best parts repeated to ignore the faults.


Amen cried for the scrawled trails.

Deliverance arrives accelerated beyond time.

Purpose is a six-foot ditch of unmarked renown.

Understanding comes through necessary silence.

Continuation be met with conclusion.

The self destroyed quietly.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

distance is fondest

diet affection

in throes of malpractice

since the new arrangement

tried in the jury of our ill judgement

and ushered out the door hastily,

now knocking aggressively.

could perceive the volume increase

even with flies exiting our minds


in and out of our mouths,

sewing the distrust revolving about.


false truth and four truths,

or pick the harsher route.

no better than Russian roulette games.

don’t spot the difference between lies.

every move improvised during destruction or construction.

save the dramatics for the newer arrangement.

tell me it’ll fix things for real.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Sure Did Try His Best, Right up to When He Stopped Trying His Best

It’s a healthy alternative when ingested internally.

It’s not a wayward strike against another hull.

I’m calling the shots to aim the shots and down the shots.

The pain’s a construct I prop up on sinew’s brick and mortar,

eroding into tsunami waves that rise without the grace of prediction.

Weather calls for whether or not it wants to witness violence.

I maim the desired target on the desired time.

It’s a healthy alternative when I keep my hands to myself.


Self-made timeout corner session,

making notes on the new scar messages.

It’s fine enough when you’re not peaking.

Keep those eyes off of my prize.

This tumble is going to cover a lot of ground.

They’ll fail to see so long as they forget to see.

Turn and let the tragedy write itself out of gas,

and the smoke can dissipate as the whispers of remembrance.

Checkmate, No Turns Taken

You scored victory and took up the pen’s shovel.

Strokes move earth to migrate problems into trenches.

Bury it and patch over it with rosery:

the beautification of misery.

What a stunning scene you’d never portray;

a display that great lengths would never be provided to.

The loser reads the history in upturned soil.

Fables are only the imagination of separate souls.

One size fits all fails to fit all

once minds break out of the reign of normalcy.

Fantasy is the wish of the defeated after checking the pages,

realizing the placement or lack thereof,

persuaded to obey the conquistador.

Change of the language or cut off the tongue.

Lost sway with a nature’s touch.

Full dependency on the nurture.

This is the best that could be discovered.

Goodbye to the Beautiful World

It stares back with a laugh like malice.

Rapid-fire grins shot against demand,

straight across the bow at sundown,

prepared to blockade exits in a hedge maze,

thorns stood to be sentries in solitude.

Encased in monochrome elegance around whatever surface,

colorless in the eternal reel of the past,

bending to attach across any expanse of progress

lest its unshakable presence does battle with forgetfulness.


Temptation laced with nostalgia’s aroma,

lacing dalliances in quicksand,

twisting about at the threat of finding where the particles go,

yet alone in desire’s thought to plunge and discover.

Consumed by the weathered discard of nowhere lands,

tasting descension in its bitter embodiment.

Enamored by and kept at the behest of misery’s scent,

matching to the enthralling throes of scratched forms.


The pain is the beauty to understand.

The beauty is the sour grace of going under.

The mangled knee is consequence.

The lesson is in circumstance.


Find it in propaganda tongues taped to billboards,

towering monoliths of the mausoleum to shrunken ambition.

Witness the eras erupting between a smile and the present.

Define the error in sallow cheeks,

dragged down,

drugged to Hell and back,

less color than the last,

less color in the next,

where within withered a will to survive.


The pain is the beauty of observation;

an exodus of being caught in the crevices.

The pain is the beauty of understanding

what happened was the glory that can never be returned.

It will linger but in distance, separated.

The glory is the best

and it has already gone.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Modern Decay Story

Not closer and no sooner.

Sitting on the curbside of expectation,

glancing back at brick-and-mortar dreams;

all of the stillborn schemes we could never recover.


No better and worse off,

parading out exhausted, familiar jokes,

seeing fate in future dates several steps behind,

where thirtysomething is where life proceeds to halt.


Resting to laugh it away,

twiddling thumbs to whittle down seconds,

waiting for resurrection to roll in.

“Any moment then, any moment now,” so she says,

arms crossed over her chest as if dressed to mourn.


No lower and steady in shock,

losing track of the tiny little mistakes

our mutual avoidance allows to plant within,

until a photograph of affection is a field of dandelions.


Not ahead and not moving,

gilding ignored caution with glory,

professing truth in the art of a modern decay story;

the only value viewed in life from piling hospital receipts.


Caressed to hide it away,

running hands past to thaw stalled blood,

hoping resurrection is rolling in.

“If nothing else, then nothing else,” so she says,

praying to our cynicism that they’ll lay a tree for us.


Glory through dirt then,

when all has gone and been through with,

and dandelions parachute heavenwards out of spring,

scouring the geometry of clouds for an edge.

If they never come down, perhaps there’s a home.

If you and I never come down, perhaps it’s amazing.


Purpose in falling leaves then,

when what needs to be said beyond this

resides in what will never be read by any passing,

but it can never be said it wasn’t there.

It can always be said we were there.


Fell mute to scare it away,

inelegant lips skirting a quiet drama,

staking all on resurrection rolling in.

“When emptied out, then emptied we go,” so we say,

adrift in a cemetery for weeds.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Open Palm to Psalm Zero, Eviction Notice Chant

What a pretty portrait to paint on a Sunday.

Wine red in artery lines.

Wipe it clean over the canvas.

Delightful!

Achieving the dismal.

Becoming dismalism.


Resurrect in a week’s middle to end.

Axe’s grind requires a feast.

Feed the engine the entrails of dreams forgotten,

dismantled surgically in the realism lens.

Congratulations on nothing!

Accomplished the dismal.


Reborn in ash but choking on the remnants.

Phoenix fire remedy a death march melody.

It all is DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.


Recalibrated to perform the ritual.

Liquor up the boys to subdue the round’s impact.

Cubicle coffins wrapped in bows,

tied over in suits and white fence security.

Wine red to whine about in desires for an end’s dead end.

How very DISMAL to say!

DISMAL TO SAY.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

D

I

S

M

A

L.

~

( ❤ Mitch)