Spotlight Love

Bring forth the line to center stage.

Sweat beads intermingle in the haunting glow.

Should these lights dim and this spotlight love grow,

my stress—should it surpass your test—will amount to greater heights.


Cry out names, meaningless names!

Their purpose decays in a counterfeit embrace.

Cry out names, meaningless names!

We’ll turn to stone in our mutual throes.


A pair of fractured bodies are nothing more than trophies.

Count the casualties on your fingers—the victims are statistics:

The fatalities of our sharpened fangs.


We couldn’t make love, so we constructed it out of gold and cloth

and thought a monument to such monumental failure could add up to cover the faults.

Flourish in the eyes of an adoring a crowd,

then turn around and face me,

abuse the past and weaponize me.


If the blood that runs down these streets testifies to misguided strength,

then “Not to be” it will be,

dive into the troubles deep below the sea.

I am cursed to forever remember shows that won’t go on.

Yearly reviews justify the daily excuse

that the lines on my forearms are nothing but growing pains.


Titles said were senseless, that is true; but when you defined me in romantic hues,

I was compelled to be the landscape you displayed.

Surgically analyzed my outline,

mapped it out on crumpled parchment,

limbs extending outwards pointing anywhere but heavenwards.

No one could say that you didn’t know me—my every valley.

Shakespearian deception: that halo must be proud of you.

( ❤ Mitch)

Raise Yer Heads, Gents, It Can Only Get Worse

What is holding you down on the ground when everything else is floating up?

Philosophy speaks to let go of any Earthly anchors.

I wear my expiration date on my sleeve so what’s even the point

in leaving this place behind in red and white?


Too fucked up to read between the lines or drink so that they make sense.

I’ll embrace the names of my sins:

Regret, mistake, the very worst to ever be made.

Sew it together and it’s the portrait of a man

waiting for the hurricane to engulf all.


When I held your hand, I asked you, “could this be real?”

And you looked into my eyes and said, “it’s too much to feel.”

So I’ll be buying calendars as I wait for nothing to remain nothing,

but still hoping the words you trade are always meant for me.


The greats of our time told us all to stay out of line,

think abstract and teach us to look out.

As my eyes crawl up my wrist and trip over the trenches,

as my body wrestles with the obstacles of curves and edges,

I fail to see a lesson here.

I fail to see a lesson here.


And the last words that come into your head before you are dead,

are that “the mistakes we made, make us who we are today.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Laughing Behind Much Sincerity

Tell me all the stories where the ending never comes,

and keep the torch high as ever.

How long can you keep it hanging over?

Your flames are melting your gentlemen’s mascara.

The chemicals are rushing off every page,

and after all they turn out to be just masks,

no different than the rest of the world and us.


Do the images make you feel so alone?

Maybe dead and stuffed and put in a cage for contemporary gaze.

Subscribe to the headlines and they’ll do whatever is asked of them.

Self-serving meals and waiting in your own line on your own terms.


As it always goes, the circus returns to town,

decked in the flying colors of pink and black.

Look closely, for it all blends in at the seams,

making love and loss, or so it seems.

Smack on a candy-laced smile for the clowns will come to bite.

They’ll fight for the honor of your bridal hand.

Waste no time and strike up the band.

It’ll feel so much better with their warm messes clouding up your bedroom haunts.


Hold your skirt above those expressions of disgust that make-up blocks so well.

And if I bump you in the hallway,

regard me with stories that never end,

and I’ll remind you of the thousands of ones that fell apart,

when you left my room and walked away.

When you left my room and walked away.

( ❤ Mitch)

Shake Me, Ms. Apocalypse

There is a sharp drop straight off into the ocean

with one little stone to play against the waves,

and there’s only room for one to hold their stance,

so naturally we’re both clinging on the fringes.

All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.


Animal instinct takes root at our bases:

Feast or fuck—the fight-or-flight dilemma,

and our wings got in a twist,

clipped by Dante’s wrist to a lower level.

There’s more value in the soil for scorched earth tactics.

Consider us the first casualties of concerted nonaggression,

the tops of these pots and pans boiling over the edges.


All it takes is a shake at the waist.

Just extend a hand.

What’s it matter when there’s nothing to lose and nothing to gain?

Sink in your teeth,

claw on the wrists,

struggle for moments of breath above the surface.

A shallow sand grave follows inside each mark that’s made,

so a fleeting grace is worth the cost.


Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose distress, we’re electing defeat.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose death, we’re injecting disease.

Leave the world in pain—unloved.

We choose no more, we never left that fucking rock.

( ❤ Mitch)

Well, if We Don’t Go Anywhere, We’ll Still Be Here

Calm your nerves—this can last for all night.

No destination.

Gliding through locations.

We travel on the power of our troubles,

put together and wrapped under this comfortable familiarity,

distracting from memory

of when one hand was wrapped in the other.

A dance of love flashed in the eyes,

and the curtain fell down some years ago.


Speak not of any of it now.

Just travel.

Burn any map.

With the flick of the wheel we’ll outrun every problem

clouding up our weary heads.

Quiet the worries.

In no time we drift as only atoms,

colliding in the vast space between,

calculating the weight of all things.


Never touch the brakes or fall asleep.

If we blink, we will smash through the windshield of our insecurities.

In a flash we crash inside the sky,

where constellations caress the night,

gently embracing.

Should their courage and their strength descend in our lives,

the blood from the mess will amount to something more than tears.

Whether I believe this or not is irrelevant.

What matters is that we share the same bed.


Drive faster—the morning is calling.

Don’t leave.

Don’t depart.

Should you hit reverse this moment will end,

becoming nothing more than a film reel in the story of existence.

Right now, I just want to live here.

This dream can be shared,

if we only just sit and listen.


Listen to the hum of the engine.

Hear the crickets quietly singing.

And above all else,

tell the reasons why to be alive.

This dream can be shared.

( ❤ Mitch)

By Policy, it is Declared

There can be no more hope, so says the federation.

Tiny cells all unite to pronounce desperation.

Whether personal belief brings this forward, I don’t know,

but split my skull and surely there’s much to show.

The theory of my failure rests deep in superstition:

That someday the parts won’t equal to the whole.

Keep the lights dim and pour on the rain effects,

since I’m out of ways to drain the water from my fears.


If you can build something beautiful, I have to see.

If you have something to say I need to hear it.

If there’s a place you need to be, I’ll be the guide there,

and if you find yourself buried, I’ll dig you out.

But ask nothing about how my heart’s feeling tonight.

I have no inspiration—keep your eyes to yourself.

The steady drum of pen on paper—a monotonic marching band—

just the sound of tedium thundering out.


How could it be to bring all the worst out of me?

The mouth dictates mind but today I have no words to find.

Any string of letters erupting is simply tumbling,

unfurling like a rainbow—the allure that brings you nowhere.

How could it be—you bring the worst out of me.

I dive into your irises and for once feel no consequence.

The confederacy of casual sends danger signals out,

because if I’m falling for this then I’ll break myself again.


Instead, I’m sitting across and laughing away my thoughts.

You said you run on caffeine and gravity:

One kept you moving and the other kept you grounded.

No matter where you leave, there’s a compass back to home.

Though your vision of home has an accent,

mine is familiar, mine is easy, mine is safe.

Give it time and you could crack down every wall,

and for once in this life I’ll live without a shell.


But there’s a reason we wear our shields and don our masks:

Some of us stand tall in a hurricane and others shatter like glass.

When I speak of you, nothing but purity coats the stories I convey,

but it covers for the fact my own tales are in shreds.

I hate the front and the pages, the way the conclusion shifts and sways,

and I hate the way you make me care about myself.

If I was self-aware, I’d abandon ship now,

but I’m drunk off of a crushing feeling in my chest.


To make this easy, send a note about our odds,

and if it doesn’t stack up, I’ll sleep better and float away.

As it is, I’ve already spent too much time stressing

for something that—deep down—will always be nothing.

And maybe it could but maybe not,

and maybe there are too many maybes.

All I know—deep down—is that after all the stressing

it will always amount to the same summation—nothing.


When the federation shot you down, I mourned at the funeral;

not for the loss of friend but the loss of a voice:

A haven where my loneliness was for once wrapped in comfort.

A place so close my lips had almost graced it.

But I did the numbers—if I stay here, I’ll shiver to death.

You’re face-up in your coffin asking me “How’s my luck? How’s this love?”

And on my lack of self-esteem I hereby swear, “not a chance.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Morning Mist

Promise not to laugh until we get home.

I have a word or two to say and I couldn’t stand to see them fall apart.

Please promise not to show a sign of feeling until we depart,

then this all can dissolve into the morning mist,

fading into the fog with all the visions and dreams of this car getting anywhere.


Remember not to breathe or utter a sound.

I’ve spent nights dating my mirror to figure out the right words,

practicing the exact pacing and the precise presentation,

dissecting every line down to the letter and worrying about missing the dots and crosses,

because I think you’ll see through my many little imperfections.


But when I look into your eyes my heart races,

jumping up and down in the caverns of my chest, playing jump-rope with my happiness,

toying my mind with pictures of hand-holding and a passionate kiss,

all of it theatrically staged under a canvas of moonlight and burning stars.

Those words I practiced so diligently become jumbled and scattered in my daze.


What I’m left with is a series of convoluted thoughts only I can read,

like my brain’s handwriting is nothing but a child’s unrestrained scribblings.

As I hand these broken and confused words to you, please don’t laugh until we get home.

And if it’s not to be I can dissolve into the morning mist,

and this can just be one of those things that will forever go unspoken.

( ❤ Mitch)

Ray Fiennes is Good at Being Angry, But I’m Not

Give me your eyes,

and I’ll hold them in my mind.

These brief glances of innocence I keep as treasures.

The smiles you give and the moves that you make endure,

constantly replaying in the caverns of my heart.


Every beat sings your name no matter what I do to block it.

I’d love to stop loving,

but whenever you enter my space, chills shock my senses.

The notes you play make my pulse race,

though on your end of the line, we move together rather formal.

Each and every interaction comes to you as normal.


The view I see you in will never be shared so long as the scales are unbalanced.

I try to realize you will never love me.

I try to recognize the signs that are all too clear to me,

holding too tightly to normal nothings that feel like everything.


In place of rational thought, I throw letters together as footprints,

hoping you might follow; you might be willing to be buried in the grains.

You and I can carry this baggage and drown with it or swim to shelter.

We can call this corner of the Earth our home, reserved only for us.


If this essay of mine has no substance to find, proceed.

It was nice to know the you that I dreamed of,

and it’s a harsh truth to know I won’t meet her.

There’s so much distance now but so much feeling.

I sit here in Bruges awaiting your final passing phrase.

Please let your shot miss.

You’re too far away.

( ❤ Mitch)

From West: Return West

Once again,

it’s just another night like all the other nights.

The sun bowed down and left some time ago,

and I feel different now.


In shadows we all can dwell in our new clothes,

with the darkness cloaking the choices that we want to make.

Dance in line and fall out of it,

only to laugh at the disorder.


These are times of smoke-filled rooms and crowded waste-bins.

Let the haze cloud the ties that hold you back from feeling something.


I am not ready to part with what I’ve made.

I am fearing the change of moving on

where new clothes come with new faces:

Masks designed against recognition; a mental complication.

Leave that home and finally wash out your carpet,

stained with memories of broken glass and loud noises of what we call ghosts.

Do the emotions leak out of the fabric or am I allowed to hold them?


I am not ready to part with what I’ve found.

I am fearing the change of moving away.

If I  alter once more,

shift and again become,

will I forget how one day I was happy?


Too many never know that they mattered so much.

We didn’t talk,

maybe hardly knew each other at all.

But that smile and that nod gave a certain something.


I’m not feeling right,

not right now.

This can’t be a last night.

( ❤ Mitch)

Move Over! No, Move Back!

[WARNING: Slight reference to self harm]

There was one time, I am told

that my charm was equal to an opposing wall:

A monolithic monster of monotones and messages,

spewing from recordings like discarded dial tones.

And I’m aware that I won’t be adding up to more than this anytime soon.


I live on, the story goes,

taking cuts from every knife and thorn.

It’s the irony of talking like you’re readying to be alone

but wishing to be noticed as more than just an empty home.

And I’m aware that I won’t be adding up to more than this anytime soon.


As long as I breathe and words explode from my chest

I feel compelled to speak against everything that I detest,

from the flesh that hangs off these bones

and the smile that comes like an afterthought.

Eyes that deceive and play tricks on unsuspecting guests,

with a face you’d rip to shreds in a reflection’s mocking chatter,

and a heart that crumbles upon feeling a mere gust of wind;

a mind that shouts and screams and tears at the wall I seem to be.


Pay it in a lonely night.

Mark grievances in razor tattoos.

And when it’s washed up and done,

the red cascading down the drain,

nothing’s addressed and nothing is whole.

A body shivers but doesn’t bend,

stuck in a position that will never end

and no hope to ever mend.


When it’s washed up and done,

the self-hatred spelled out so plain,

one word resonates in my brain.


Coward.

Coward.

Coward.

Coward.


And I’m aware that I won’t be adding up to more than this anytime soon.

( ❤ Mitch)