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.
The Last Purge of Scorpio Season
It's been dark, heavy, intense to say the least. I feel like I'm in a limbo between knowing what I have to do and where to start and do it. I'm hanging in between some sort of internal battle where there is no clear winner, and the only way for it to end is through the death of one. In my nature, it's hard to let go. Of anything, anyone. Even old versions of myself that are already burning. I try and put out the flames instead of letting her fall away. Even though, I am aware enough to know that underneath the ashes, there is another version of me, that is needed for what's to come, just waiting to be allowed to rise. But I use my new flesh to put out the scorched pieces hanging from the bones of my old self. Why? Why do I do this? Maybe I like the pain, maybe I'm a masochist. I don't really have an answer. Or at least one that makes sense. How do you let of something, that you know is bad for you to hang on to, that you know is already dying? How do you release the need to control? These are all good questions, that I ask myself often with only a blank expression to follow in response. Because I don't know. What I DO know, is that I'm meant for more than this. I'm meant for legacy. I'm meant to leave my mark on this world, and on the souls on it to reflect on long after Jessica is gone. I am meant to help transform the souls brave enough to step into the dark and dive into the depths, into the underworld of existence and come out reborn. The thing is, when it comes to me, I get stuck there. I can swim in the dark, blindly, and know where I'm going. It's coming up that's scary. I don't know what to expect of her. The new parts of myself. I don't really know what she's like. That's scares me. How do you release the fear of the unknown, even when you know behind the door is gold? I'm drowning in the indecisiveness and the struggle that I am creating. Yes, I am creating it. I own that. Suffering in the silence of my own undoing is what I'm good at. It's what I know. Eventually, the phoenix will have to rise, meaning the old skin of me that I'm shedding will have to fall completely away. It's inevitable. Whether I go easy or not is the point. It won't change the outcome. You can run from destiny. A promise was made long before I wore this body, and it needs to be carried out before I leave it. How do I remember enough to trust what's coming, when right now all it does is hurt?
By Jessica Rasile4 years ago in Poets
The Stain
Darkness absorbed all but the single point upon which she starred, not flickering her pupils from the handprint left on the wall, she overwhelmed herself with the destructive memory of when he left his hand stain upon the brick boundary, creating the destruction it left within her bounds.
By Luna Arcana4 years ago in Poets
