You Will Always Lose

It rummages about,

rampaging in the dark clarity of slumber,

rifling through shelved ideas.

Cluttered it comes to be

half-past acceptance of being awake,

half-before the sun’s encroaching glare.


In perfect lighting,

Shadows thrive in ignorance,

undiscovered by the myth of lucidity.


Catharsis denied in dampened returns to the bed,

unclean by the shocked, sweat-stained rhythm

of a figure rising to prepare a fall

into the corridors of the lurking expectations,

rummaging about in imperfect theater;

the impetus of inevitable disappointment.

( ❤ Mitch)

Under an Unmarked Headstone

Recall the taste of mulch.

Tumble down at a show of force.

Wandering fingers twitch at the feeling of familiar dirt.

Does it linger there in the backstage

where the looking-glass man cowers in bandages,

tied tight to trauma it never knew was there?


The playground barons and the pavement kings

camp out in the hippocampus with a smoldering fire.

Sixty dollar checks direct a hose to the scene;

they pick up their belongings,

shift to an elsewhere,

lighting a recollection when nothing can brace the shock.


Shove off masters of the belt as conquest begins,

a fake Napoleon spreading flags across the continent of consciousness.

Bounce off to out of sight, ought of mind,

and his unrequited rage reflects back in lost hours of sleep,

soldiers digging trenches under eyelids

where the scarification of skin fails to heal lingering craters.


Does it remain never-fading?

Does it still come as the arctic cold,

racing across the spinal cord as a torrid freeze?

No shield protects the skeletal frame from crumbling under its head’s weight,

bearing the brunt of remembrance it cannot withstand.

The lashes at night are no longer a dream.

The faces that torment no longer cease.


Shiver at night with no mouth to speak,

and nothing remains but a voiceless scream.

Nothing to be done except play roulette with pill rounds.

Turn it over and over and over again.

( ❤ Mitch)

Count the Errors

On a daily

sliding scale,

where are you found?

Which statistic is speaking

at the direction of a finger’s assertion?

Now as it wavers in air,

dwindling to the side

of a sliding scale,

where are you?


On a daily

mounting dosage,

what sector of mind talks?

In reoccurring conversation flow,

a distance transforms the self and its killer,

placing the latter at center focus

as the former is escorted off,

restrained for examination,

picked apart.


On a daily

slipping grasp,

how do you balance?

When the edge is excavated,

scraped off by a scalpel’s ill intent,

do you collapse for more?

Perhaps seek another

ready ledge to cling

and breathe.


On a daily

concluding scene,

have the credits rolled?

Scrolling through insomnia’s throes

in the decaying glow of an opened window,

has an escape route been uncovered?

Does it flash in memory?

Still it drags on,

repeating.


On a daily

sinking story,

what will bail you out?

The buckets have holes drilled in.

The savior’s been tossed off to drift,

and his gift was only a sour taste

that lingers on the tongue

and deeply drops

a sliding scale.

( ❤ Mitch)

Thoughtpiece: Hitting 200!

Well hello again, everyone! It feels as though I was only recently posting about how I had hit 100 total followers on my humble blog here. I had never expected to reach such a milestone as quickly as I did, and yet it seems as though the website has experienced continuous growth since then. It truly is a surprise, but I am so very thankful for everyone that stops by, reads what I put down to paper (or Word doc… potato pahtahto!), and leaves a follow or a like. To the you, my fair visitor, it probably doesn’t mean much. To me, it is an incredible gesture. Every follow is another step towards one day making a living out of my passion for writing. That is a difficult goal to reach, naturally, and I am acutely aware of how far away exactly I am from even scratching the surface. However, I approach that objective bit by bit daily, which is all thanks to those that have supported me and continue to do so.

So, where do we go from here? I suppose it’s important to update my general life situation, as I am currently in a position that complicates my usual posting regiment. I am currently enrolled in my final year of college, with my major being in the education field. Because of this, much of my morning routine is spent instructing students or hurriedly making lesson plans to try and get by in life. It is only slightly (read: absolutely) stressful! One downside of this is that I cannot reliably get my material out on time, and I’m occasionally so burnt out mentally that it’s difficult to engage with writing overall. Essentially, my productivity is being hampered by the unfortunate responsibilities of an extraordinarily tiresome career choice. I’m going to be doing my best to keep up, so I hope you understand if I falter a bit. I’m counting down the days to graduation, where I will hopefully be done with all things related to college and education. I learned far too late that I have no desire to teach, and institutions do a laughably poor job of preparing people to do so. For now, I just gotta push through until I get my magic paper and move on to the next chapter of life.

I am still going to be here and I’m still going to be writing; I just cannot guarantee that it will be as consistent as observed in prior months. These following weeks are going to be a certain test of my strength, which is not even mentioning the fact that what I plan to do with my future is completely nebulous. Thank you all that are reading this for sticking with me through this period, and I sincerely hope you continue to do so! I still keep myself busy by submitting to magazines, tossing out new poetry ideas, jamming to music, and posting reviews, so all is not dire! I’ve also recently acquired a microphone as a belated Christmas gift. Though I’ve yet to use it, this opens up a lot of possibilities for how I can exhibit my content going forward. Considered my background in spoken word, I’d definitely enjoy crafting a YouTube channel to diversify what gets posted, adding a performance element to my works. I’ve never shared a choice few pieces here due to their design being tailored to a live setting, or at least a particular vocal delivery. These could see the light of day if I dive into another large media market.

If you’ve made it this far: thank you again, sincerely. I know I repeat that a lot, but I genuinely am touched by the increase in activity I’ve seen here. It has given me confidence in my poetry that I never had before. Most importantly, it has demonstrated to me that it perhaps IS possible to carve out a niche with my creative endeavors. I’m not naïve enough to assume it’s a sure thing or that I’m really anywhere near such an achievement. I knew going into this WordPress website it’d be a longshot that could easily fizzle out in a few weeks, off into obscurity like so many others before me. But I am going to try, and I have the courage to roll the dice. I appreciate each and every one of you that are along with me for the ride.

Much love,

❤ Mitch

There will be a new poem up in about 2 hours, so stay tuned 🙂

Ebb and Decay

Static in motion

                yet kept so still

                                in illusion of

                                                a form of progress

                                illustrated thusly in

                scattered carpet lines

wherein a kitchen blade

                was poking holes

                                playing pretend skin

                                                with a hunger for flesh

                                that plays its hand

                                                at a game of resistance

                                                                ebbing further cliffside

                                                                                until a precipice glistens

                                                                and a prey’s eye

                                                turned hesitant killer

                                catches a stray glimpse

                and a dormant compulsion

discovers a rebirth

                with maroon dreams

                                and dances with razors

                                                plotted delicately in fantasy

                                                                as spun by desperation

                                                and concluded as solution

                                                                by migration from the floor

                                                                                and jagged worry marks

                                                                towards definite indefinite

                                                                                outside of conscious bounds

                                                                                                where motion is irrelevant.

( ❤ Mitch

Crown the Kings of the Taproom

Gray slate has no reflection to state.

Penciled in are the features I know of you,

but nothing’s to show that speaks of a person.

Were it a mirage, none would blink twice.

Pressed into a walking statue makes no difference

when placed into the populace of a city of naught but stone,

where the self is rendered nil,

satisfied in its barest form of a predatory instinct.


Follow the fermented pool wherever it leads,

passing thru stranger’s doors for the promise of escape,

digging into the trenches of a barstool to stake out the closing time.

A final drop is a disappointment.

An empty hand must be a fallacy.

Clamor for the coming round as Malthus brings his thumb down.

There’s never enough to feast upon.

Disregard that which compels pause.

Everything is false and the hunt is where truth lies.


I no longer perceive whoever you could have been.

I no longer know what I shared with.

A car door slam accompanies a squeal towards the night,

dragging my ribcage behind as its thrashed about,

tugging out ligament by ligament until firmament empties.

And in the carnage, I’ll caress the carnal urge to be subjected to,

having spied the edge of the bottle’s domain and strayed clear.


Plunge me in.

Drown me in.

About without the thought of me.

Plunge me into the meaninglessness of mine.

Drown me in the impact I’ve lacked.

It’s clear I’m the losing half.

( ❤ Mitch)

Lean Into It

Painted into the darkened clouds,

past the rim of eyesight locked on looming waves,

have you come to pull me out?

Shades are drawn over the cot.

I’ve been induced to statis again

under a marching fog’s watchful guard,

wrapped around my knees to bear down my feet.


A runaway set of tracks runs straight onto my head,

leading flying train carts to the top of the bed,

the force of a million hammers dropped carelessly onto,

and the aching never departs,

nor the thought that births its strength.

On a better day in a mirror’s rays,

it’s said I’m a carcass in a dancer’s gown,

confident in clothing that hides my darker colors

and the cracks I’ve inflicted.


Stuck out as a limb on a precipice,

jutting from the face of a pitfall,

you’ve got a shoulder I’m dropping my heavy weight on.

I don’t deserve this cushion or this ladder up.

I want to shout a question out to you,

but you’ve put forth an answer with a smile and a shrug,

lifting jetsam up the cliff as if it was air,

and on the trip to the surface I feel a rush.


A moment to spend beside your warmth

has me barreling towards a future,

holding in my heart the confidence to stand up straight.

Any slip towards the drop no longer has me panicking

knowing I’ve always you to know as my friend.

( ❤ Mitch)

Run the Table

Cast out the blind’s reel

and the night peeks in.

Setting’s all the same as it was before:

No shaved hair,

no wardrobe change;

all is as it were,

with a pajama presentation show,

trying to force a deal with the lights

to give a strength that’s never internal.


Waiting at a window for a wandering word

to plummet down through the shingles of my armor,

the comet to pierce through glacial aftermath

where any sense of self has been ashes or frost.

There’s no new sign in the lasting stars,

too distant to know other than an ephemeral name,

too far to call to in confidence,

but I’ve more faith in removed particles than flesh and bone.


I push forth a wilted rose as a bargaining chip;

a promise of quiet in the darkness

or wherever the endless question guides,

and an assurance of peace in a blank garden,

never trampled by visitor or friend.

In the stillness of the sky’s overarching eye,

there’s only a silent nod to perceive,

impassive to the passing observer.

I find in it truth in dried scars on the thigh

while testing the veracity of an edge

or the secret behind a tall window’s ledge.


But there’s no waving embrace.

No trampoline to cushion.

Only a comet’s crater,

scorched and seething with heat.

Panicking in a pajama show I stand above,

all as it were:

Same fear.

Same doubts.

Same insecurities along my legs.

Waiting on a hope to abandon,

or a hidden fire to draw down the blinds

and block off the gaze of the emptiness.

( ❤ Mitch)

It’ll Cost You Points on the Scrabble Board

Rested at the crossroad in declining light,

wanting to see a blameless city burn,

with a thousand screams sending hammer strikes through windowpanes

from the frigid air you’ve been cramming down my throat.

It’ll be my fault for the shrug and turn demonstrated

when circles face inward and cast out the outcast outward,

jagged geometry punishing for poking a head out of doors.


Should have known better in the room’s poor weather,

feeling a frost from a friend’s bare blade advertised as a coming of age.

Distance is what stands a character straighter,

makes a man grow a mammoth’s coat,

digs a wider cave to let a bear swallow up a conscience,

sleep soundly through a season without a need to care or be cared.


The biting temperature’s greeting is a feeling that’s unrelenting

in the absence of flotsam to grip onto a lucid thought.

I’ll pull back the lever that’s laid down the gates,

letting their fangs shing bright on shirt stains and band aids,

their urgent signs the manor wall boxing me into nothing.

I’ll sap out the marrow in the name of Puritan self-sufficiency,

chasing myself out the back door of parties with my own words,

smearing over a veneer to never let in on the fear.


Hung up, chin down on a fortress surface,

I take Rothko as my shield and never give a hint otherwise

that there’s any other color to spy besides the one clear in the eye,

unequivocally un-opaque next to more exciting shapes.


Inside a blank picture are a thousand screams

all loosely tied to draw out the frame of me.

Should I ever loosen grip on the wall,

light strings fly, tossed into a cold breath,

made thin in the presence of larger characters.


Would rather be found in a tree limb’s embrace,

discovered in a kite riddled with pike strikes

as those around desperately stamped out the sound of a soul

for never fitting properly in the jigsaw world.

Every Win is a Loss

Dip me into a bed of snakes and I promise I’ll breath fire.

These worries will not survive another calendar page.

I’m at the task with nothing to ask,

only for a bridge between

to map out the continent we’ve come to create

with an arm linked up beside its holder.


Is it enough

to hold a marching people afloat?

Is it enough

or should I wait for an answer?


Thrown to the pack of wolves from your rage,

I’m taking teeth marks to drop your rapier

as you’re taking a fable out of rock,

willing to lay down upon a could-have been

for the would-have been have done their work,

and the lifeboat you’ve seen across in my sea is deflated:

False hope to a dreamer.


Is it enough

to guide you towards me?

Is it enough

to guard a speared self?


I’m here waiting for an answer as you’ve gone.

I’m down here waiting for an answer as you’re scrambling up the canyon edge.

If you’re calling then your voice is too distant to hear.

If you’re calling then I can’t see any lips moving.


At the flames I’ve beckoned I saw fear running

and thought it was fair enough to call it enough,

yet all I see is a cracked gray,

encasing memories around it,

and all I see is dried

into scars that surround me.


And I have severed hands,

laced with the single stress

that if you’d go to battle for me

there’d be no fire from your mouth,

and I don’t think you’d be there at all.

( ❤ Mitch)