american fever dream
hopelessly in hopeful state of mind
we are the children of dreamers
rifling through our memories for a piece of stained glass nostalgia
riding on and on for hours and hours, miles and miles.
we are striptease
slow dance
no music
a dark room at midnight
moonlight streaming in through the window blinds, minds made up
to bare our souls, but not quite naked---
not quite ready to see what's wrong like
walking in a sunshine
minefield of daisies.
American dreams had us questioning our worth; got us
flipping through channels searching for silver screen consciousness,
throwing caution to the wind and the passion gets lost with it.
we are
autumn leaves
spiraling
down the same
center axis.
gravity pulls us
down
to the ground
can we beat it there?
can we
reach our roots deep
enough to remember
that yes,
we matter?
we are
california beaches where the color never runs dry,
never noticed my mind crowned by all that stormy sky.
we salvage love where shipwreck paints survival bitter
we call love "american beauty".
we call war "beautiful fury".
we never mean to get this high, but out here
we always end up making love to fallen angels.
LA girls with ultraviolet in their eyes,
anonymity never felt like it does tonight;
crash like the waves on the side of the cliffs
all night.
we are the children of dreamers
who used to think love was such a beautiful thing.
but one day rifles dropped out of the sky and men in camo green
ordered our grandparents' parents to waltz with them and
split their tongues on the bayonets.
that was the day we made peace with war.
we are
shipwrecks of logic
spun through
the thrust
of split
tongue
instruments
of war forged
in hollywood's saturation,
we are
the children of dreamers
stained glass nostalgia
a dark room at midnight
no music
About the Creator
star torres
writer, wanderluster, INFJ, chronic empath, lifelong learner :/ also fronts a band from Boston you've never heard of
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More stories from star torres and writers in Poets and other communities.
i miss my dad, and the skeletons in his attic
The ladder to the attic groans in protest underneath my mud-caked wingtips, my feet like deadweight as I swivel my body in a precarious dance to leverage another box of Pop’s infamous whatsits against my waist. The man was a closeted hoarder; a survival technique turned obsession that may have served him well when he first left his country to settle here in the States. He always seemed to have two of everything, like our house was Noah’s Ark. Need a pair of jumper cables? Garage, left hand cabinet in front of the Buick. An air fryer? In the living room underneath the floral-print table cover, still in its original box being used as a makeshift coffee table. Maybe he felt more like a pharoah—pillaging the American Dream, padding the inside of his pyramid with appliances that would ward off boredom in the afterlife. The twist at the end is that he passed in the ICU surrounded by entirely new objects, sounds, and people (he had somehow avoided ever going to the hospital in his life). My mom and I, unfortunately, had to say goodbye over the phone. It was the first time he ever used Facetime, and we spent our last conversation with him looking up into his nose and repeatedly reminding him to flip his camera back around. Covid is one hell of a virus.
By star torres3 years ago in Humans
I Am a Prisoner who Dreams of Prisons
The dream always starts the same: I feel the cold bite of wind gnawing through clothes entirely inadequate to protect from the weather and I realize I am standing in line. Ahead of me and behind me are other inmates, identified by the burgundy scrubs we were issued upon arrival. I don't know where we're going.
By Kyle Cejka5 days ago in Fiction
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