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.
you know what i mean.
i'd be laughing cause i don't just understand what's so funny, but i AM the joke; falling in line but not in love, yet still i always march to the beat of my own drum so long as your inflammatory practices are labeled as flattery. commence renewed efforts in outlining the fault assigned. then you're free to resequence misinformation as needed. when you don't speak to converse but just to affirm your own posterity it simply amplifies your unmistakably lone voice. dismissal issued out with vague accusations, but YOU are all the discord you feel. there is so much more meaning in participation and that is what you're afraid of- you know what i mean? i'm sure it's just me, not possibly you. matches and gas-lighting are more than children's toys. they may seem like entertainment but be careful of who and what you set ablaze. these accommodations will leave you and your peer-review not wanting for any benefit while evasively cultivating doubt; reasonable or not you remain a mystery to me. the majority may wish to give the hard side of their changing rule of thumb. even still, the character arc of ethics never changes beyond resignation to its rut of ugliness and intuition: the wheels that make our world go ‘round now ride axels that are bent and broken from driving down hope with all the best intentions under-developed in all the worst ways. one-size-fits-all-hoaxes to fit any narrative. easily increase your wealth by assuming the worst of me before i can even see you- a rapid realignment and posture by taking any liberty provided by hopeless romance just as the self-evident truths, rooted as one with “We the people...” and inalienable by definition, disenfranchised all but the men behind the parchment. course through history and you’ll find the truth was usually seen as blasphemy first and its prophets deemed dangerous and crazed. you still know what my words mean while you ignore what i say. i am begging your pardon and for communal audit, not authority. to deny me, whose ethos does that define more as less or lacking?
By ⸘jason alan‽5 years ago in Poets
Departure
How does one depart from happiness? I cannot decide the best route— tears is the obvious answer. There is a well inside of me and the water is drying up. I try to swim but my feet touch the ground. What of the brick itself— I coat them in cement, glue them and tape them together; give me something. Anything. My tears will dry with the well. Departure cannot be sewn together.
By Olivia Dodge5 years ago in Poets
