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.

Who am I today?
Highlights of the day, to-do list, poetry? I don't know... “Magic maker. Song decoder. toast and peanut butter. Image rider. Dodging cheap cologne: looking for a sandy beach (in my head).”These are: extra words for approval. To make things count. I cannot exist with my current amount of symbols and sounds that mean so much more! But still, here I am, as myself here I am: nothing less than before. Is 61 enough? Maybe 62? What do you do when they say it’s not true? Keep going, keep trying - in spite of their ways, or find a place elsewhere to freely create. This. Poem. Is. Now. One. Hundred.
By SB. 5 years ago in Poets
TIMEless 20 ....Universum ___________alter......PLANET.
Overeture MMXXI .TONS OF WORDS.............unlimited by the timeline flowing through BODY, In places, spaces Where do you find Touch
By dominika błażek5 years ago in Poets
Where Wolves Prowl
A breeze-blown howl under lunatic skies Lycanthropic chill bristles the skin Moonlight flash in pale yellow eyes revealing the beast that lies within
By Sara Little5 years ago in Poets
willing mist
Somehow my heart doesn't sound with the same beat as it first listened to your prolonging words I am full of calming rythm enjoying all around every breath
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda 5 years ago in Poets
like the orca.
What if... We cured headaches with songs of the soul, a breath To a humm, a guide that knows By listening, my stethoscope
By SB. 5 years ago in Poets
grief in the lungs
grief in the lungs you’re gone and I can’t breathe maybe this all has to do with how Jesus was stabbed in the side on crucifixion day
By Canaan Trice5 years ago in Poets
The Old Record Player
When the needle hits the groove On the old record player My mum kept all these years Until she passed away *** Her records in a box
By Paul Douglas5 years ago in Poets
These Scars Bleed
This blade is cold, but it burns as it drags across my skin. These scars I make, drawn by steel, are easily cut in. Some are so deep. They keep reminding me of where I've been.
By Kevin Klabon5 years ago in Poets
Search For The Light
Tear me apart from the inside. It hurts so bad, and you're killing me. Tears of glass, they cut so deep. My body aches; no, I can't sleep.
By Kevin Klabon5 years ago in Poets
Death of the Needful Hand
Family. Lifeline? No. Those "so close" are blind. Fill your minds with lies, resigned in erroneous reveries. Such things in past were perceived as creative, imagination, positivity. But, as many things, a turn of the knob, acknowledging the door is locked, suddenly a reverie becomes false ideals as adulthood eats it's way through you. Abandoned; left to rot in deep thoughts, the off-white phalanges tap, tap, tap away, typing out curses of your remaining destiny. Remember words spewed in envy, thoughtless claims of regret, and your expression that WE are weak. Look back, you'll see who is really in need. Push your ignorant judgments aside, you sicken me yet again with your disbelief. I know now...your olive branch, that I mistook for late blossoming maturity, was dead and withered. Another one of you lies. F*ck me, one more lost friendly.
By Melissa Oros5 years ago in Poets
Steam Punk Watch
On my wrist sits a Steampunk Watch. -the tiny gears, visible between two Faces of glass, could fall out of Place at any moment-- one would think.
By Benjamin Crocker5 years ago in Poets
the point
what if there were no such thing as a higher path or a lower path? purpose, destiny, soul mission - what if those were just concepts we created to help us make sense of the unfathomable reality that we're somehow conscious flesh roaming around doing things on a giant sphere of matter?
By Allyssa Izetta 5 years ago in Poets