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.
Curse
My thoughts chip away at me the way a sculptor does marble, the way a sharpener does pencils, the way intrusive thoughts does sanity. When I blink the world is dark for a moment, and that causes my heart to stutter. Every closing of my eyes brings me closer to death; sleep only comes when exhaustion beckons. I always knew that darkness, even in small doses, is dangerous. I’m afraid that even the most mundane activities, the most everyday tasks, are a plague in my mind. “I think, therefore, I am”; I think the world is dangerous, thus I am always afraid. I awake each morning startled and thankless. I am shocked once again the darkness did not take me. Will it feed upon my fear until I am a living husk? That’s basically what I am already. I’m just so tired of the thoughts. I’ve been told time and time again that the worst endings aren’t the only endings, but what other endings are there? Someone dies everyday. Why should I not think the next will be me? The only thing without question is my mortality, but I have to constantly think about how this life of mine will end. I have to think about the poison in the food I eat. I have to think about the poison in the water I drink. I have to think about the poison in the air I breathe. Each morning, evening or night, shit, whenever my eyes open, I have to think that each second passed is a second closer to death. I’m told to journal. I’m told journaling helps. Picking up a pencil is a tall task but asking such a feeble thing to carry the weight of your words is just unreasonable. These thoughts deserve no home but the head that houses them, the heart that forsakes them, the body that fears them. Their home walks with voided eyes and feet that never truly leave the ground, a mobile battlefield torn asunder from within. I am dragged to my knees by the very mind that fuels my art. I exist to be consumed in a room with just enough air for me to breathe a creation. My hands aimlessly wander the paper because my legs can carry me no more, but this curse will see to it that I will create until my death.
By Terrell Reese4 years ago in Poets
August
I lie in bed and my heart aches. The angels in our walls have hidden and the forecast shows a break in clouds but this thun- der is unforgiving. Inches away relief scoffs in my ears with bright lights. I never noticed the trim on the ceiling; did you? Abstract vases, abstract voices, will you please release this air inside of me for one moment— quietly, softly, do not disturb relief. I will reach out and I will hold my breath and I will try my best to place my heart aside. Panic feels familiar beneath my skin, manifesting behind my eyes and should I check my pulse? As I suspected. How the need for words squirms in my throat. Are you still awake? Breathe this breath in heaven and do not let it go. Give me your hand, take it from my chest. I feel I will implode with silent sobs if this warmth does not touch me. Will you hold me? Just until I fall asleep.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
