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 Game
Life sometimes doesn't seem worthwhile It's just a bad game we play, Although you don't like the rules of the game You have no choice but to stay.
Colleen MillsteedPublished 3 years ago in PoetsEmpty
Incandescent streams of illiterate patterns of immemorial bliss, casting incoherent shadows of naked souls strun about like pine cones in fall. Cast the stone hear its sound infused with Dead wasps, dripping the salt from another, are these but intricate weavings of fallen particles that lost their way or abandoned their post. Where is the moment, now lost, never to be once, as if to see that which has never been. Have the possibilities faded or is our sight constrained, should we look, or is this the place of gods, Unseen slivers of experiences spread carelessly across infinity in one. More than one is incomprehensible to those that decay.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsContent misdirected
Convoluted casualties of twisted torsos scaling walls of incomprehensible height and depth, bleeding enigmatic sorrows created by preconceived notions of a reality that envelopes the mind spewing inadequate marvels of inconsistent victories, that lay dead in the pit of procrastination, seeking approval, wretched meet wretched, lost meet lost, we have found our way, the dance ensues, and the snare is set that we may dance in this cesspool of provocation being led by lack of and satisfied within this labyrinthe to nowhere.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsBlack
Betwixt be the tailor of souls decimated by brutal connections that drain into oblivion scattered pieces of wreckage encompassed by distance fears that no longer are present. Colors fade into black and white yes and no, depart from these and fall victim to the renaissance of corruption words lost in cryptic tales thought to have meaning fall to the ground broken like glass, and blown away like dust. Concede not the details of time lost. For have you not grown or are you still as the hermit crab stuck within your first shell to afraid to step out naked and cold, too afraid to find your new larger shell for fear of being exposed, not knowing that this exposure is necessary for the next stage of growth. Palpitations of the soul screech in darkness seeking out ridges of the cliff to cling too. The well is not dry ,draw from your own well, quit stealing from others for if the waters are never stirred or drawn they run stagnant all is thick with poison perspective askew blaming the wall, for your fear sitting in the sun only seeing black, this is your cause, not the wall or even the night.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsThe Cost
Skins of dead snakes exude perfume from their scales onto the dead grass bringing forth one single flower, a flower of hope and glory distant memories swallowed by time have you forgotten who you are. who you are to be, glory beneath the sullen sporadic marshes of your soul grow into mountains of possibilities scouring the essence of life devouring time. Simply set in a fixed empathetic region of wealth disturbed by inconsistent drops of contorted abnormalities bleeding into the cost
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsGods Lost
We were kings in some ages, Gods in others .now we are but dust, renditions of human cliches. vivid imaginations spreading across the vast empty calling for us to come home .but there is no home for the reviled the outcast, we have seen and know the corruption within, the taste on the tongue is as acid eating away the flesh, come see our wisdom, come feel our pain it is bliss .tantalize by the voices inside creating company within solitude.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsIntrepid
In time you came to see me but all was lost, my eyes were hollow my heart was black, for I traded it all .my heart for stone my mind for plastic and my soul for a concept, I have faded into oblivion distorted by the view of others to distract from one’s own corruption,distant cries echo in the caverns of eternity, why did we lose ourselves in this how did it become our burden to bear, the weakest amongst all creation is the pinnacle of it all. The weight is immense. who are we but wanderers in this vast empty trying to find a shred of something that can free us, let us open up our wings to their fullest and fly na soar, in an unsurpassed freedom that can only be felt in the deepest recesses of our essence our being what we are.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsThe Balance Askew
As you stand on the edge of the precipice, thoughts of grandeur pass by as do thoughts of a solitude martyr amongst the air of kings, screaming in the silence at such great heights. Wonder escapes into fear, then to revel in defiance against the very same emotion that grips the spirit and bids it to leave. Reflection has welled to the deepest pools of the mind. Dancing on heads of pins is easier than this. This realization of insignificance bleeding through into individual unique flavors of its own, for without it all would be less. However the balance inside weighs heavy for insignificance, yet to know distinct separation of all things is to understand its value, its uniqueness, its flavor. Then why are we standing in solitude on the edge of this precipice believing to be solitary but knowing that it is us that meets the cliff to the sky, causing a symbiotic relationship that knits all things together. We are special, we are significant, However overwhelmed by the vastness, we still believe that we are not.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsThe toll
Sporadic spores of indignation creep across the lush life of eons gone by, Hurled into the next, to the evaporated contrite spirit of once kings, that now crawl like scurvish men, fiending feverishly for morsels of sanity. A gasht are the voices which scale the heights of eternity. Treading mountains of souls trampled by the minds of the masses, flooded by bile and honey. To stand is to fall and to fall is to stand, the circle of correction, the lessens burnt, slashed, beaten, sweet essence is derived from flowers such as these, for they cannot break, it cannot be stolen. Time brings forgetfulness, comfort and weakness, where is the road of the outcast, for as if they are. no, it is the sheep believed to be goats that have been found wanting. They bear the mirror without reflection. The devourer of time opens wide, time torn asunder leaking minuscule fragments twisted into bursts of energy fulfilling the toll that is due.
Johnny GerbrandtPublished 3 years ago in PoetsNo Air In Your Lungs
Easy to breath No one ever thinks about it How you are supposed to breathe The easiness of the movement A young innocent girl
Victorian BlackPublished 3 years ago in PoetsDreams are of these
Dreams Are like ripe mango slices On a chipped indigo plate You notice everything Juices dripping through the visions in my mind
DonJuan Carter-WoodardPublished 3 years ago in PoetsTHE RAVEN'S OMEN
PERCHED ATOP THE FADED SYMBOL OF THE CROSS, THE GREY BLACK MENACING RAVEN SITS. STERN OF FACE, SILVER GREY BEAK PROTRUDING WITH A SOMBER SECRET. SHE STARES INTO NOTHINGNESS.
Novel AllenPublished 3 years ago in Poets