The American Dreamer

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By: S. DiSparti

If there ever was a perfect dream, what would mine be?  That proverbial American dream that America strives and dies for?  Perhaps.  Yes, I have a beautiful wife and daughter, but I have a dead-end job that ends at a small desk with four insurmountable walls; a number-crunching rat in a cage, feverishly looking for a way out.  And these dreams still pervade my every day.  Dreams of becoming a rock star, an actor, a painter, even a circus carny; just something different, or more accurately something with less responsibility.  But what can I do with irresponsibility?  What would I have to show for a reckless life?

You think you know what you want and once you’ve acquired it, you want to keep your receipt just in case you want to exchange it.  If I could just be single again, young again, thinner again life would be much better…but would it?  These are just thoughts that stream across my line of vision as it has for so many others.

If the American Dream is more stress, then I have accomplished that.  And I find later in life that that is what the whole reason for human existence is.  This biological necessity to keep the species alive, to survive.  And the only way for that to happen, one needs to be challenged, to stare into the face of adversity and overcome it.  Is that not why I am here?

I see a stranger pass me by and you wonder what their life is like, wondering if theirs is better.  If their shoes are more comfortable to walk in than my own.  If their dreams parallel my own.  The grass is always greener somewhere else; the ever-covetous neighbor.  The old envy the young, the poor envy the rich, or the ugly envy the beautiful; it is all immaterial.

These lives all diverge and converge on the same elusive path we struggle to follow.  Dreams change as you get older, some die as soon as they are born and some live on, ever-changing, ever-growing into something new.  And though some days are harder than others, I know that this was the path I was meant to walk and I wouldn’t walk anywhere else.

 

 

Cockroach

Hear me scuttle across the filthy floor,

Amid the beer cans and cigarette ash.

Ugly legs scurry about looking for more;

Hear me scuttle across the filthy floor,

Looking for shelter, itching to explore.

That vermin that swims inside your glass.

Hear me scuttle across the filthy floor,

Amid the beer cans and cigarette ash.

By: S. DiSparti

 

Once Again

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By: S. DiSparti

 

I don’t know who you are,

This man nor the parts

That makes the man who he is;

Etched into this unknown heart.

 

With phosphorescent eyes, I peer

Into its depths.

So far beneath the surface,

So far beneath the fear.

I watch enraptured,

Curious and captured

By all the majesty here.

 

But what makes the man;

That continental divide

Between water and land

That makes him human?

 

Is it his heart?

Sanguine, yet sovereign

To all rhyme or reason?

Where the arrow aims,

Piercing the flames

Of love and hate?

 

Is it his body?

This vulnerable skin?

This sac of bones?

This face that mirrors

The world upon which it stands?

 

The heady scent of sin,

The sweet that dances on the tongue,

The smoothness of perfection,

The sound of the autumn wind

Soughing through the dying leaves,

The sight of dawn washing away the eve.

 

Is it in the mind

Where memory of life

resides?

Permeating the fleeting fabric

Of time.

Of that first kiss,

That first glimpse

Into something new

That now belongs to you and me?

 

Or is it in all of these

That I am me and you are you?

Does a body need

A soul to breathe

To know that it took a breath?

Something that only time can rend

’til it’s ready to be weaved

Once again?

The Resurrection

My apologies to all my fellow blog-kin.  I have been extremely busy lately, mentally and physically.  Switching to the graveyard shift is not an easy or natural transition and my brain has been literal mush as of late.  I am writing this to assure readers and bloggers alike that I will be returning to the forefront with dusty keyboard in hand ready to create once again.

To those who have commented or liked my work in the past, I encourage you to check out these other fantastic poets and writers; giving a shout out to Roxi St. Clair for her eloquent and visionary style, to the Underground Writer for their practical down-to-earth style and ardent determination, to Glittering Afterthoughts for their expounding abstract prose poetry, to Calliopes Lyre for his wonderfully raw and imaginative free verse, to You Monsters Are People for the name alone, to Garth Von Buchholz from Dark Eye Glances for his dark and magickal mind and his wonderful support of up-and-coming poets and writers, to Hastywords for her indefatigable imagination and passionate style of writing, and to the many more that have kept the dark literary community afloat, thank you!

Okay, I’m done now I promise, but seriously I highly recommend that if you haven’t already checked out these poets’/writers’ work, that you take the time because you won’t be disappointed.

Sincerely,

Skeletop

The Castle by: Skeletopia

Originally posted on skeletopia:

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There beneath the skeletal moon, its face ablaze with pale, blue fire laid a spire of a ruin, its towers taunting the very heavens above.  Its yawning gates beckoning me to enter.  My fear silenced by the cries of curiosity as I crossed the forbidden threshold.

Stepping into the womb of night, my eyes were bathed in blindness, the chill air seeping into my very bones.  To my right, velvet drapes adorned a monolithic window, like a pair of demonic wings.  Viscid tears poured down the dark walls in thick droplets.

I came upon a long hall lined by an endless row of candles on tall wrought iron staffs.  Their disembodied flame shining like pearls in a sea of blackness, their ghostly light exposing framed faces, painted with melancholy.  Their deep, hollow eyes following each trembling step I take.  There were men with terror-stricken faces, men with sullen expressions, their…

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A Muse in the Sea

By: S. DiSparti

O Muse, my Muse, are you real or a dream?

Come, O come speak to me and harken!

I can hear your sweet voice rustle through the leaves,

perching inside my ear like a lark on

A tree.  I speak with a thousand tongues,

In a thousand languages, but what

Am I to say?  What is trapped inside these lungs?

I ask you, O Muse, how many cuts

Must I make to gain wisdom from these wounds?

How deep must I go to find the pieces

Of my soul buried deep within the ground;

Beneath flesh and bone, a sea of voices sound,

Rising to the call of my roiling mind,

Begging me to save them from the ever rising tide.