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.
Stockholm Syndrome
I have always wondered how everyone close their eyes without a cure to dream. Without a tourniquet to the head. Do they take you into their arms? Do they wipe your memories? Do they offer amnesia? What do you do in this condition? This abduction is a nightmare. The missing time is mine. The seconds study me. They memorize my false pretenses. There is no relief in the mundane. Just shut your eyes and forget. I’ve been robbed of my clarity. Depriving myself of my own basic needs. Insomnia never stays. It hitches a ride to other vigils. A seizure offers reprieve. Sedatives are temporary. A comatose slumber. A getaway to drowsiness. I’m alert but not awake. Cautious, walking on eggshells. My idleness lingers. My procrastination has arrived. How can I convince you? That hypnosis has failed. How did we disappear in the night? The theories implant memories. Paralyzing trance. My sleep is dormant and lethargy is me. I’m in purgatory. I see you clear as day. Give me relief. Give me alleviation and consolation. Intoxicating depressants. Just relax now, it’s time now. A painkiller of dreams. An anesthetic of sleep. Give me release, give me reprieve. Let me go to sleep.
By Anna Torres4 years ago in Poets
The sword in the stone
I had to reinvent myself to escape the pain. Invisible but alive. I had to save myself, I had to escape. There’s evidence to the contrary. That we can shoulder the blame. But a wound is a wound. Whether bleeding or not, it’s all the same. There are always walls. In your head or in the way. You hear the words on repeat. You’re not worthy enough to be saved. Your birth was an accident. You would’ve chosen the easy path. But every road has curves. Invisible lines aren’t drawn on any maps. How do I justify the camouflage? How do I detect the concealed? The desperation, the misery. I can’t find it, it must not be real. My illness is the reason I stopped trying. The source of all my despair. I played it safe, I’ve played it weak. This affliction has made me emotionally impaired. Bitterness and irrational. My effort to appear sane. I hate myself for taking the path of least resistance. Excruciating blame. Inconsolable and defeated. I am planning my own imprisonment. Invisible and permanent. I will take all your pity until there’s nothing left.
By Anna Torres4 years ago in Poets
