surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
handle with care
2. The kid who’s watching the door quickly told everybody that the teacher was walking down the hall. Everybody immediately started picking up the paper, putting the desk back in place, sitting down in the seats and just talking with their inside voices. Acting like nothing happened. The teacher walks in and greets us
By Robbie Bale3 years ago in Poets
handle with care
1. Just another day at Clara Jones High School. Go to science class in the morning and all of my friends are there before me, per usual. Cracking jokes, waiting for the bell to ring. In the morning and I was supposed to come here. I'd really rather be at home right now. I hate school so much besides science class. It's at least my favorite class here before the rest of the day just gets flushed down the toilet. No teacher in sight. Bunch of kids up out of their seats. Jumping on the desk. Throwing paper. Typical morning chaos.
By Robbie Bale3 years ago in Poets
Ode to my vagina . Content Warning.
My vagina is a house. Mowed on the outside. Wide as a barn door. Some call it a safe house Others, a mad house. Because it has been a home to thirsty travellers with Itchy feet. Hungry and harried men. Men with no faces. Homeless men. My vagina is a house Overlooking the hills The road is slippery. Accessible with rubber boots. Beguiling! Beautiful at night. Some call it a haunted house. Because it has kept the Conflicted hostage and allowed willow men to check their souls at the door. My vagina is a house A classical ruin Movable and ambulatory The dwelling place of peace. A place of worship. Communion space. Many have sworn to Heaven and seen the face of God at the peak of ecstasy. Some call it a temple. Because it has restored faith to the afflicted and ignited the fire of a love lost. My vagina is a house A stone house stinking of hopelessness. Some call it a bulwark. A home for soldiers to drop their bombs, and fire shots. Just a fortified building for heroes to write history. My vagina is a house A fancy bed and breakfast. Where fool's gold is mined. Some call it a hotel. Motel, maybe? Brimming with art inside. White linen, and warm showers. A place for the spoiled, And fancy to smoke and drown. To tickle death. To mock purgatory. My vagina is a house. Mowed on the outside. Wide as a barn door. Known to carry countries. A nurturer. Life giver. Many men have called it home. It has been a home to many. Some betrothed. Some, like an office revolving door.
By kingsley chidiebere3 years ago in Poets
Goodbye to romance
Dear Reader caution you these words. This prose, this rambling of a darker kind may disturb your musings. For it is written in the view of a deranged mind. In the perspective of a killer who knows only the depravity that swirls inside the decadence of warped sensibilities. So go yee forth with armor to fortify thy soul, to protect thy innocence. Or if thine truly desire the ugly rapture of the shadows of our world then proceed to thine unpleasantry openly. -
By The Invisible Writer3 years ago in Poets
