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.
Victim
Looking down at this viscera, my heart slowly staining the floor, she wonders why she bothered with a red rug. When can I be the savior instead of the carrion spewing lies like "oh, I'm fine." as it's my skull cracking the pretty, wooden, peace. Protectors at the door; she steps outside, maybe to hide the carnage behind. Sir, can't you see? I'm not me, something is wrong, I'm not strong, I lose me when the bell rings. A smile hides the black static closing her eyes, a wave goodbye helps you turn a blind eye to the garnet 'click, clack, clinking...' dripping as the gaping hole beneath my sweater begins to fall victim to gravity. Body buzzing with the fear and adrenaline as she sees she has bled out, time and time again, to no avail. Answers still fleet, like questioning the existence of a deity. No time for that anxiety with my ugly past of secrets, and a clash of current attack, pent on the horizon. Haunted? Maybe she is. By the words as they purge. Tears singing their mournful song, breath short with sobs of aching unclarity.
By Melissa Oros5 years ago in Poets
Do You Know Me at All?
Yesterday I stabbed a man. Today I'm playing mom. Silence of thoughts expected as reward, but she's never experienced that before. A storm outside, she spins and spirals a dance of joy, the torn paperback slipping from her fingers to flood garnet down the drain. Soaked through the ebony depths, she's all smiles and wicked gaze. Key in hand, I wander to the door, ready for the comforts of home, then the synapses, like a bullet to the head, fire thoughts back in. She runs away, the street slapping wet, trying to hide from her reality. Nary a soul around to care, she cannot handle this alone. Back track to this place; the gutter puddled red around the pages that bleed. Her forgotten story, lost in that single expression of glee, titled 'Lose Me'. A glance upon my home, that is not mu home, for there is not for reverie doc, only the tense silence false hope. I slip the key into the locked, and breathe.
By Melissa Oros5 years ago in Poets
Dream Life Gradient
"I'm not okay." A confession she writes.; a statement of fact, so my dear dry your tears, for this is not goodbye. It's just...see you in a while, and I miss my own d*mn smile. It went too far, too far, and I'm losing my grip. I need your help, but you're shut down too, so who do I go to when reality is crumbling, my mind is jumbling, and we can no longer see straight? Go ahead , let it all out; I stand defiant. My heart and my head can handle what you have to say, right along with what life has thrown my way. Gleam in their eyes, a page turned to reveal a fresh chapter: 'Roots'. Plant the seed, roots holding firm, and many smiles to be seen. The world begins to die, the 'novel' taking a turn to the dark side. Home, these roots, a haven, you see? Love grows. Illness sows it's seed repeatedly; now we see nothing but weeds, no end in sight. He receives words unclear, planting stress like a poison snuck to you daily, over so little time. Life gets in the way. No answers in sight. Love is winning, plans to save our life. The knife's blade leaves us hanging out to bleed. Time flies, she's close to die, and the poison has darkened his mind. Still no word of decision so import. Is it time to cut down the tree? Is there a saving grace? Were those words left forgotten to destroy this little life that only just planted it's first seed? Little eyes will cry, kelly greens will bleed, and failure may sweep us away; lost to the gloom.
By Melissa Oros5 years ago in Poets
Thin black lines and the spaces in between
The life of one single note. The one note that might change a whole symphony. Hoping and waiting for its time to shine, will it make it, or will it fall short? With clones filling the spaces in between, jumping from one line to the next, it's easy to feel substandard. Siblings that have their own size, shape, and sound, fill the only place you have ever known. It's not home, it's not your room, or your work, or school, just a space. A space that only has lines.
By Rambler's Society5 years ago in Poets
