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.

After the End
Here time suffocates the light with rusty dust, And a vile cobweb of boredom clings to the face of oblivion. You are in the living room
By Nik Hein4 years ago in Poets
BLESSED
Time Is coming to an end Now’s the time for me to spend Looking up not looking down With my rhymes I found my crown Many things are driving me
By Haychie_Artist4 years ago in Poets
Dementia
Memories of you the past is gone wondering how long a memory will stay strong. A vision in their head it's you they see instead
By Denise Larkin4 years ago in Poets
Punch / Counterpunch
A missed opportunity realised, Will I ever meet the right eyes? So much time on the Sweet & Sour, Miss chances like native flowers.
By Savannah K. Wilson4 years ago in Poets
Where to Begin?
It is impossible to know where to begin when one attempts to share the most difficult stories; perhaps the middle is the most appropriate place for me
By Stacey Mataxis Whitlow (SMW)4 years ago in Poets
Morning by Arthur Rimbaud (1873)
My childhood: wasn't it once a fabulous dream? A heroic tale to be inscribed on golden leaves? To what criminal error can I presently owe my feeble form? You, who believe that dumb brutes grieve and beasts of burden weep, account for ME! and explain my decline, my slumber!
By Tom Baker4 years ago in Poets
god is not dead
god isn't dead!? she sure did fake it tho... she may have changed her name, but not her ways. some call her a savior, others say she's oppressive.
By ⸘jason alan‽4 years ago in Poets
Discomfort
When I thought of the Flame Deep into that darkness flickering I awoke Flame - tormentor of my dreams My passion is the ablaze flammability
By Elizabeth Rodriguez4 years ago in Poets
"When Do I Get To Win?"
Here I sit and sigh My own emotions, I won't deny I'm glad, but I cannot lie Why do I lose, when all I do is try? ... "What does it mean to lose?"
By Thavien Yliaster4 years ago in Poets
Narrator of Words
My American Lenses British scientific oral stimulation Narrating the narrative Documentation is imperative Here is me translating the hieroglyphs
By SiAire4 years ago in Poets
Orange/Оранжевый/Oranjevyi
In English: Orange tastes like a cold-as-an-arctic Creamsicle. Orange feels like the summer’s sun saluting you first thing in the morning.
By Talia Devora4 years ago in Poets
The Tower
I close my eyes for but a second. As I open them, I gaze out overa barren, rocky, and dimly lit plane. Unrecognizable, foreign. Massive trees line the horizon of a cosmic sky. A blue-hued celestial body stuck in it's shillouhette, an eternal exlipse befalling where I stand.
By Conlan Nielsen4 years ago in Poets