The View’s Different Twenty Stories Higher Up

Hooked on a minimum wage addiction.

Survival instincts force a coup of the living room.

Dug into the furniture’s trenches.

It won’t improve in the climb.

The only rising thing is the mailbox.

Seeing red pile up through the cracks.


Trade time for commodity.

Shivering in warmth.

The chill is a fever spike,

failed to sweat out in isolated fits.

Deals run short on purchasing a halo.

Lose luck on happiness and currency.


Drop out and let a house of cards fall.

Drop out and a stray breath blows it down.

Drop out and worries subside subsequently.

Drop out and have it end.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Psychodynamomania

There’s no privilege in provoking secrets,

daring closeted skeletons into the light.

Shoveling out all with the pocket lint,

let the bones rattle when pressed,

bounding from room to room without a change in either,

and the story reverberates from start to end

exactly as it started and ended prior.


Swing back,

load the shot,

down the whole if it’s been said before

that wings mangled in barbed wire aren’t fit for flight.

A mess of veins makes for a soothsayer’s tongue,

adorned with rust from telling dated tales.


Taken stock of archaeology’s understanding,

let fly the trigger if it’s been seen before

where that which we vie to keep comes to the grave,

wrapped in the ash and tatters that severs the biography,

clasped hands clinging to visions through a forged glance.


Of every era is that urge to believe

dried blades are made green on the other side.

None questioned if we were seeing grass or growing weeds.

And in taking what cannot be taken,

the best to be seen in autopsy

is what has been unpacked from room to room,

demanded to return out of hindsight’s scope of focus.


Swing back,

load the shot,

slip on control if it’s been known before

that cycles observed repeat if repeated

when no attempt is made to dismantle machinery,

but another shuffle off to white walls,

emptying out secrets,

waiting to reaffirm the emptiness yet to discover.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Crooked Ships Lost in the Night

Penciled arteries are smudged over,

turned too often in shaking hands,

steady once in a simpler, prior era.

Preserved ink is a breath away from shattering,

sentences with the fragility of glass,

details absent seconds after an utterance.


The body abandons first,

as is predictable in passages;

the unfortunate truth of understanding unknowns

beckons with a price tag attached.

It’s the betrayal of the mind that hurts,

never expecting to succumb to blank slate photographs

that themselves will be rendered to less.


It’s the crumbling interior of consciousness,

matter escaping into bottomless drains through cracks in clasped hands.

We may only take so much when we begin to leave,

and palms are made empty come the violent/unviolent ending.


Come back quickly if you could.

Return swiftly if it pleases.

I feel a fear for who becomes the next target,

and I’ve begun to forget your face.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Our Inherent Fiction

See the actor became the liar.

The lessons learned propose a fresh perspective:

adopt gold through sewn doubts

and an image limited to the pen’s mouth.


The great irony comes to play

that when rendered digitally

a mask is only half full,

the glass even less,

with regrets in a cavalcade cascading,

dried anxiety pictured in the ink.


Taken only in the passing of strangers,

there’s no more than a particle of dust on the eye.

No consequences from the gallery.

Internalized by the closer figures,

the better parts portray frustration alone,

abandoning understanding to save their own deaths.


Kept in perfect order, then, when spoken to.

Ambulance sirens call warnings from the profile.

Invisible eyes follow for more;

present eyes leave for less.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

there are no imperfections

I am the concrete sentinel of industry,

manufactured immaculately in Puritan fires.

No complaints from the head of the yoke.

Leave no admission of potential cracks.


I embody the failed experiment of masculinity,

stripped to be only metal and sweat.

Cut the throat’s sound in nervous episodes.

The world cannot hear a male’s scream.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Reflecting on April: A Month of Frustration

We’ve now officially crossed into the fifth month of the year. It’s pretty wild just how quickly time has passed, and it’s a phenomenon that has brought me to reviewing my progress as of late. The previous time I did so, I had experienced incredible growth during the month of March. It was a sharp increase that immediately set my hopes high for the future, which seems to have been a very naïve sensation in hindsight. April was not a poor month per se, but it paled in comparison to the heights I achieved in the prior period, leaving me with a lot of questions and uncertainties. What exactly happened between then and now? Where do I go from here? Am I not doing enough?

The numbers just weren’t the same in terms of views, likes, and followers gained. This led to a frustrating series of days where my posts, ordinarily obtaining decent enough attention, were suddenly receiving less than half of typical data. The Ko Fi account, now nearly a month old, has similarly been a complete bust, with rarely any activity recorded on the page. It may not have been an entirely terrible month, but I could clearly observe a trend where I was slowly losing the traffic I once had. This was possibly most jarring when, upon review, one of the most viewed posts from this period was one where I discussed upcoming changes, the Ko Fi account chief among them. Yet, despite that apparent viewership, no one from that post seemed to have visited the page.

Where to go from here? I’m honestly not sure. This very well could be an unexplained down month that could subside in May. However, it rekindled a lot of doubts in me, especially when each preceding month had demonstrated a steady upward trend. I seem to have regressed without realizing why, if there IS a why to begin with. I had expected things to pan out differently, but that is clearly not the case. It puts me in a situation where I need to either adapt or really reconsider this website exercise; if I stall out, it may not be worth trying to continue it. Of course, the issue here is I’m not sure what exactly to adapt to, since I don’t comprehend what happened here.

For those that are still visiting, reading, and liking my posts, I greatly appreciate it and I value your support, feedback, and presence. This has just been a very saddening experience this past month. I’m gonna keep at it though, and hopefully things change up in the future.

Thank you,

❤ Mitch

cRoWd FuNdEd!1! ur voice matters1!!1

Run the numbers.

Dissect meaning.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Assume the lower level.

Descend.

Logic supplies support.

Math purchases the poetry.

Selected, not written.

Made, not felt.

Tailored to expectation.

Examined in red eye microscopes.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Satisfactory.

Unsatisfactory.

Meaningless.

Proceed to the lower level.

Run the numbers.

Victories are hollow.

Losses are forever.

Descend.

Undo in frustration.

Self-made perspective flaws.

Attachment disrupted.

A hand’s motions, alien.

The prose is foreign.

Ownership deprived.

Power be to “they.”

This is eternal.

The self is temporary.

Be disposed of.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Dresses For Winter

He doesn’t bother to brush it off.

Lets the hair stand up in the strands it woke in.

Considers the long sleeve option,

but stops and doesn’t bother.

Who’s watching out for tally marks, anyways?


An echo to rise to from his belly

in the wake of a reflection’s approval.

Tried the store on the way out

and was too sick to feel sick,

but that’s just par for the course nowadays.


He’s got his eyes locked on balconies.

Spends the minutes crossing off names.

Thinks about “not tonight,”

but he knows he’ll attack what’s left of him.

It’s the most of what he’s worth, he says.


Silent alarm to blare in his mind.

The warnings are clearly prescribed.

But a severed branch falling;

do the others take notice?

He’s not thinking so;

so he goes.

( ❤ Mitch)

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)

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)