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.
Midnights
Love seems like a prime time series Archaic I have come to think Ticking itself away taking forever Breath taking like the balmy weather Bringing a blithe spirit like Vintage leather I petty those that want us to asunder Killing two birds with one stone Eating us away like evil Filling the chalice of the devil There is an empyreal radiance To our love Often times the ephemeral Joys of childhood Sometimes maundering through life Like a man without a single ambition Your love is my blanket The one I pull over every night Warmth it brings under the moonlight To my nebulous niche That you explore with puissance
By Alana Zian4 years ago in Poets
Ritual Awakenings
on the ground in the dark, like a snail creeping slowly toward salt, there's a feeling inside that i know very well, and it unnerves me. it feels like being out of control again. it feels like wiping dust from the ceiling fan and watching it gather again. it feels like stepping into the rift in space-time that visits me when it's hungry again, and i'm afraid.
By Elise London4 years ago in Poets
•Are you lost?•
The trees call out to you, whispering in the wind Soft forgotten screams, the trees beckon. Despair? You feel something in your throat the closer you get to the deepest woods. A crawling over your skin, but it's autumn and the insects have returned to the earth. Can you hear them? You can hear them. The distant ancestors of the lost. Your ancestors. You're treading closely to the edge of where life meets the lifeless and the dark consumes the light. The wood is thick here, and it's hard to see ahead. But you feel it. Like a burning in your chest, like heavy hands on your back. And they whisper, but what do they say to you? What is it you hear in these dark woods? Afraid and curious, you trod on. The branches tugging at your clothes, roots threatening your fall. A cut across your cheek but the blood doesn't spill from your wound. It spills from your eyes. And the crying starts up again as the wind picks up. A barrage of leaves fly to you, blinding you, forcing you back. But you won't. The intoxicating darkness calls you with such seduction. A bleak desire to go on pushes you forward but suddenly a voice from behind echoes your name through the wood. It sounds desperate. It sounds sad. Why are they crying. You have to keep going. But you turn, and you're in deep. Are you lost?
By Demeter-Valencia A Lopez4 years ago in Poets
