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.
The Antagonist of My Life Story
When your rock wall crumbles, like it has no mind left to spare, and you have nowhere else to turn. You may be quivering with quick past pleasure, but at the moment words mean nothing. Never will they grasp the hurt unless they reap such a dead seed. The depth of this root eats at her soul, depression brings darkness; she can no longer see sense in deserving color in her life. Hide, sad girl, behind your wispy veil, the woman is missing in action-or she wouldn't be so weak. Is there truth in these words? Pain overtakes, mind goes static, rage bursts forth. Tears cut path's regret; pointless endeavor. Yet forgiveness handed so freely, underserved, as she is blind to what they see. The me I don't see. Beneath these eyes I see what lies-the negativity rules this life of mine. In this beautiful life, so full of light, why must the shadows guide? I am the shadows, giving off no light of my own, only absorbing every tiny refraction into the void that is me. I'm not only the darkness in my existence. In tough times, I bleed a black sea, flooding small ones sweet dreams, and staining his stunning green rings. Where do I go from here? The abyss is scaring me; I'm too afraid of the dark to fight for the sky. Can she embrace the light, losing one fractal, of what lurks inside, at a time? One tall crutch of support, weaves beneath an arm and around slim clavicle, to pull me high, and a petite cane intertwines fingers of strength, so fine, to keep her from hitting the ground. Whimsy loose in the middle, lost without connection, she'll struggle to breathe. It's the ink between these lines that flow free to share the antagonist of my life story…
By Melissa Oros5 years ago in Poets
This Story Doesn't Matter
Sad girl, smart girl, sick and deformed; a geek in her own right. Eye for words and numbers so clear, nose in a book and impatiently waiting for others too succeed. Dangerous to breathe, harmful to see, and a waste to be. Charmed in ways others never spent though always feeling the damage surrounding her. Dysfunctional ways not the demon hiding in her deep dark tent. Harsh words, and a hit or two, kids shall be brutal; never cared much for it, always looking to treat others better than their pain. Broken trust, violated by another's lust, into a shell she shimmied free to hide so she could be. Heart break, and new life, near death and disorder, painfully aware with shocking agony; is this really PTSD? Or am I just a drama queen?
By Melissa Oros5 years ago in Poets
