The Water Rushes In

In what view will you be seeing me in today?

The lens cycled through place the saint and its rival in the same space,

but in any fixture, I’m always one and the same behind the glass.


Against any better thought, I chase your lure around the bed,

tracing the tail of sin some nights before you put me in a different light,

injecting blame or hope when I’m wanting nothing more than to comfort your worries

or caress the hand of another.


I’d yearn to be glamorous,

but I’m stuck in another man’s glow

making me appear like secondhand clothes

passed down to you damaged and torn.

There’s a perfect heart-shaped hole in the breast of my shirt,

and I’m filling it up with the glass shards you handed to me from your mess

after falling too hard for the urge of a familiar venom.


A jagged piece tinges my insecurities every time I reach out,

for whenever you brush against me, I’m feeling everything,

but you’re only feeling like it’s him.

A single collision of fleeing bodies discovering a kiss in a car crash:

It feels like a world to me in all its hurt and all its triumph,

for I was able to take part in it all,

but I watched with glass shards in my hand as you went back to remember him.


Please leave me out of your sight if you don’t intend to take any of mine.

This calls from the precipice your finger points me down

as quickly as it beckons me to run back to your den.


Knowing no better, I leave an apartment open in my head,

knowing you’ve already made that bed as he’s knocking on the door.

No fee is needed for I know your lure will stay its place,

for I always knew the love I had for only you.

I was concentrated on a better part of you that wasn’t poking holes in my chest.


Had any care been given to assess the scene,

see a sight that wouldn’t ever find a level ground,

a daring ship captain would never flail about in danger,

seeing an iceberg approaching yet believing it to be only a papercut on the horizon.


I wasn’t ever looking clear.

I was yearning to be glamorous.

But you’ve traded me down like secondhand clothes,

set to rest on a shelf damaged and torn,

always in the range of your apathetic gaze.

( ❤ Mitch)

Her Life Coach Was William Hearst

Reeling as if struck,

but no punches have been thrown.

Laced up gloves for a fight that’s splattering black and blue paint,

but the only strike felt is a stray word’s spike,

jutting out as the javelin to secure the prize.


Take the triumph now that’s been sold to the forked tongue hibernating in your mouth.

Indulge the treasure trove of adulation when the crowd buys the first print.

Tuck that Pulitzer plan proudly under your arm.

No bout was ever won fair without a yellow dress to spare.


To the ball gown,

racing down now,

looking to rend that which cheated me away.

Spin around then

at the neon clouds

flashing the repeated beats fit to bury a man’s grave.


Frantically flip the panic switch and abort all control.

There’s no room for change when each change is seen as a same shade of black or white.

Where then to place in this ring?

There’s no stable footing wrapped into a web of tightening cords,

bent round the jugular ripe for a Tyson’s kiss.


Heroes of our fables struck with precision,

decisive in their action, on target in their game.

Sketched out thusly as the dart magnet for sharpened spear phrases,

no conclusion comes sooner than being a victim of a gold medal marauder,

shedding skin to integrate into a pyrite shell.


To the old face,

twisting dials round,

pretending shouting makes a point to a brick wall.

Turn around and see

the neon clouds

flashing repeated beats burying a self-portrait’s grave.


Never has a fair fight been without one willing to flip it over.

Upside-down, numbness rushing to the eyelids,

and closing shut only shows black and blue.

( ❤ Mitch)

As Justified by Fallacy

Spare a moment.

Stay sleepless this eve for one time.

I’ve exhausted all recommended remedies

and any cent that could be dropped for a call.


Have a second aside.

If for a passing space in the progression of our trajectories we may cross,

I’ll complete any labor to secure your forgiveness.

Made driven by a lingering madness,

the innocence that buoyed my ankle to Earth was severed,

and the simple truth of another’s gravity was pulled away:

a tug at the cloth that kept me composed,

now spilling over the fabric as shards and fluid illuminate the split-brain life,

never properly in sync without a sun to dance for.


Spare a moment.

Hang on the wires for the siren scream.

I faced the prospect of emptiness and not a laugh emerged from the tapestry of lights.

No consent or contest was challenged as an undeniable absolute dared to be questioned.

Shivering in this cold leaves me begging for smiles that aren’t there.

Faces that swim in and out on a whim,

never present in a room present with me,

lacking form and emotion to provide any sort of knot to ground me.


Spare a moment.

This is when I need the you of the now,

not the you that’s already past when you come around for me.


Pry me off of the sidewalk.

I’m just dreaming again.

Body is resting on industrial soil.

Brain is stuck climbing several feet higher.


Peel me off the walls,

I’m just wishing again.

I flick drama at a canvas and damn it to silence,

kindling a hope that you’ll peek.


But you’re concentrating on blinking.

Each eye and ear are shut.

I’ve lost the signal from my interstellar radio

as I’m drifting off to a supernova star.

Is it purely mathematical to depart from a ship that sinks on any blueprint,

or did you spare a moment and simply find me lacking?

( ❤ Mitch)

Infinite Happy Endings

Back in the far reaches pretended to be extinguished,

there’s an itch notched in the back of the cranium.

Shake at the thought when the pinch is close,

bouncing to and fro between closed eardrums.

Isolate the aspect and dissect the process.

Blanket over kitchen items with cherry-colored candies;

Sour as they slide, no sweetness in the mind.

Choke an apple a day; no more no less

to smile the treatment away.

Watching the worth of a waistline increase,

but the plague of fatigue steps in tow.


Stuck in a tailspin described as an allergy.

It will pass and no trace will remain,

much like the remnants of wreckage cascading from a crash.

Tendrils of the rift swallow to irrelevance.

Hold no clothing nor possessions nor fellow hands nor brethren.

Kept in nadirs never seen and never visible,

there’s never a smile that’d remain in a torn breast pocket.


A leaking heart wears itself too blindly

and pins dust on its veins to try to clog the cuts,

binding discard to discord for makeshift warmth.


Back in the far reaches laid bare for personal doubt,

there’s an itch notched in the back of the cranium.

Blanking out on another nostalgic drug,

swearing names out that have become dead to mine.

Wrap up the torture in cherry colored bandage,

shine bright to the dark, shut the courage off at dawn,

call the lingering instance of light a process.

Swing the head back and load up the magazine.

Cock the loaded trigger and spout out singsong.


The taste of each phrase sleeps sour on the tongue,

dripping ill optimism to splatter over pessimism.

At the first sound from the morning alarm,

dress for success to utter nothing new again.

Dripping ill optimism to splatter over pessimism.

Infinite happy endings all concluding to nil.

Caught in the tedium and subsequent delirium between closed eardrums.

Slide it back and sense the bitter bite.

No coat of armor blocks an attack from inside.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, Finale

You said

to be someone;

to be who I had always been,

though tucked behind an actor’s skin.


You said

to be honest

to the friends that never leapt;

those that held fast in firing lines.


How quickly it all was sacrificed when playing the role of God,

twisting the hands of time to combat conspiracy.

I was a fool then.

I’ve the same foolish head now,

but lately it’s found a center,

buoyed to one last reality that halts wayward destiny.

These trajectories now meet.


Call it science or call it fate.

Call it whatever needed to create

our hands holding close in a window’s dull glow.


Call it genius or insanity or calculated,

call it whatever needed to create

our lips brushing lightly in the reversal of memory.


Enraptured by a second condemned to expiration,

left fully formed in the depths of a conscious traveler,

I wonder if these constructs of the hippocampus are but hollow rooms,

the scenery drenched in grays illuminated by a mind’s touch,

but they’re never to be shared by the others who were there.


Brushing lightly in the present,

all but simple acquaintances,

half aware and half unaware.

I wonder if you’ll ever know.

I hope you’ll someday know.

Steins Gate | Okabe Rintarou meets Makise Kurisu 'Cristina' Again | Last  Episode - YouTube
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

Thanks for reading! I know this was a long one, but I had fun revisiting one of my favorite shows of all time 🙂

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 5

To correct it all;

to steal away the pen of history,

the coup of the author would be worth flawed flesh.

Imagery of tyranny leaves no impact.

An objective flies directly from a heart to the bearer of its chain

to which I am devoted to bet the last of all energy.

Let wills dissolve into laser’s precision.


Enough remains for two chances at salvation:

The excavation of normalcy turned fantasy when buried under impulses.

Tragedy nips at the heels; ignore it.

Mistakes are computed to an ultimate act of loss; move past it.

Of a million routes carved into history,

one deserves the barrage brewing inside me:

The lasting act of a character on stage.


A fratricide blinds the eyes of the fortunately ignorant,

made a feature drama as a man’s scorn drills a hole into a daughter.

Encased in shock with limbs halting in motion,

a mad scientist must come to action.

Immaculate improvisation.


Fates and forces out of mankind’s deft hand are ever so elusive.

The leader of the gate,

the seer of diverging matrixes;

he is the one to hold the key to any reality.


The irony forever dawns in the unrelenting knowledge of effects,

where the movement of the savior caused the ripples he now adjusts.

It would have to be the worst of all great minds to err so,

though never faltering as foes arched arrows into the castle.

The leader of the gate paves the way.


Destiny’s eyes can be tricked by theatrics.

The final cost comes in blood and I’ve it all to spare.

I’ll submerge beneath a rising haven.

None more will see or know the name that allowed it to soar.

Seeing life erupt in eyes once prophesized as closed,

I’ll submerge beneath my masterwork.

Distant regimes topple into forgotten chronology,

but the magnum opus is you and I.


I need no praise beyond this point of ascension through descension.

I’ve found a purpose in bleeding out.

To live or to falter at the gate,

I no longer feel a need to pretend.

I know now who I always was.

I am he who holds the key:

The leader of the gate.

Steins;Gate Opening HD on Vimeo
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 4

Blood runs on these hands.

Blood dries on these imperfect hands.

Blood stains this shadow of a man forced to pretend.


Contrite laughs by a grave revelation

have bound a soul to disguise himself out of desperation.

I am the character on stage armed with theatrics,

allowing white coats to cloak a thinning veneer.


A glass construct shudders at its base.

Piece it together with your arms as a fortress.

Struggling in a cityscape unphased by its lurking trauma,

piece me together as my machinery decomposes.


My constant companion, unaware as you are,

carrying the weight of a collapsing structure,

instilling confidence forgotten in the next travel backwards,

yet never absent from my mind,

cursed to remember every scene of every outcome.


Caressing now amidst a concluding drama,

is it fair now to say we’ve won?

Observing the repercussions of undoing foolish consequences,

desire flatlines in favor of a once undesirable status quo,

where a microwave meant nothing more than the sum of its parts.

The cords have been untangled.

A smile regains its shape.


But a snag—

a gear caught in transition—

a jarring realization—

innocence flickers out of focus,

a glitch in convoluted reality.

An explosion seemingly years past resonates in the now.

The now is nowhere near safe.


A line is caught on an error of existence;

a flaw of life when its destination had been decided—

a glitch in convoluted reality.


Of all futures,

one is a victory only Pyrrhus would accept.

One is certain defeat;

the utter destruction of me in every outcome.

The now is nowhere near safe.


Makise Kurisu must die.

I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 3

Immaculate are the schematics,

but failure stalks among the details.

Measure the second hand,

mark the precise point of departure.

The lesson is nullified upon the winding of time.


Adding selfishness to subtract the joy of others,

I cannot trust even the neighbor selling lies on the bottom floor.

Operating only on the diminishing flame of insanity

as a tunnel narrows,

the light succumbing to a constricted hope.


Wave goodbye to a doomed voyage.

Accept the resignation of falling short.

Every impact leaves an irreparable dent on this sinking frame.

Sucking dry the flower of optimism bred in by foolish dreams,

it cannot be the fault of yours.

What I would do to hold and console,

allow reserves to crumble into the ash of burnt imagination,

yet trapped in the hell of purgatory may I always be found.


In each relapse to destiny’s prologue,

a flash of red hair sneaks into my eye.

In pieces scattered across fluctuating worlds,

she remains ignorant of how she reconstructs my puzzle.

Reassurance is forgotten in the blink of a condemned endeavor.

She always returns to draw color into blanks.


In every action there have been reasons to abandon,

and through experience I cannot comprehend why anyone would save me.

I only know that a second chain is growing in my depths.


In shadows of self-imposed dilemmas,

crawling from exit to entrance;

a loop straight to a runaway escape,

she always returns,

and I find new strength.

I do not own this image

(<3 Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 2

Continuously extinguished.

I watch anguished at unshakable fate.

Shackled to the will of time,

she slips into the cracks between conflicting lines.


No greater force exists that I would never bear,

but attempts are fruitless versus the paradox I created.

Worried are all that see a slow descent towards surrender.

They cannot know the danger faced.

They can never see.


A sight once so clear is mired in future deaths.

The butterfly’s wings have been rendered to shreds,

peeled off surgically to fulfill human impulses.

Must I reverse all and erase what brought growth?

Have I come to hold the hammer that strikes down all creation?


Ushering a father to his grave,

a child back to their isolation,

a rebel into endless woe;

is this the cost that must be paid?

To drag a weary soul back to its brink where emptiness awaits;

is this the cost that must be paid to see your smile?

To feel the warmth residing in the room

that marches valiantly in a life built of lies and posturing,

I’d slice off every limb if only to hear your laugh.


Brilliance is the haven out of reach.

Painfully aware now how far below I am.

If drifting into rifts cut into reality’s fabric,

a single chain linked to the center ensnares a wavering heart.

I would pay the cost to return to that realm.

I will pay the cost to know happiness again.


Madness be damned.

Precious Mayuri and Okabe : steinsgate
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(<3 Mitch)

The Worst Great Mind, pt. 1

Call it happenstance.

Call it determination.

Call it destiny preordained.

I am stood here all the same.


Call it genius.

Call it insanity.

Call it calculated.

I measure to the same failure.


Is it per my hand

or per my will

or per the pain of others

that I am henceforth pushed forward?


Driven by desire

and driven back by the selfsame urges

as reality itself bends.


I was familiar

and am now made alien,

venturing to known lands rendered unknown,

and the fault requires ownership.


At the head of a vessel

now spiraled out of control,

who am I to say I am not the one at blame?


Smothered by the demise of dreams

and the strangling of security

brought to fathoms below in a muzzle’s flash

or sliced in the aftermath of a car crash,

I alone bear witness.

I alone possess the guilt.

I alone am stranded between a creeping future of wrongs

and a reality I avoided.

Steins;Gate Ep. 13: Fate | Moe Sucks
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)