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.

Working Hands. Top Story - September 2021.
I look at my hands often. They are beautiful. Everyone says I have my mother’s hands. Mom was always gentlest with me. When I’d let the tears pour she’d say,
By Christina Jeong5 years ago in Poets
Home is Health and Health is Wealth
Remembering the days that I felt numb And Remembering the days that I felt nothing Writing this makes me eyes turn into a faucet
By Princess S.5 years ago in Poets
Autumn Drizzle
Sitting in an autumn drizzle, hear sparse rays of sunlight sizzle. Lithe light moves in mottled patches, slipping through the thick tree branches;
By Michelle Frazer5 years ago in Poets
Warm Anatomy
Have you ever felt a place cozy enough to hold you perfectly? Somewhere you can simply be, where love runs unconditional Like a river to a sea.
By ItsAlwaysAlyssa5 years ago in Poets
The Dark Warmth of Her Mind
She stepped into the dark space of her mind’s home. A place where many are scared to roam. What do you see when you step inside that darkness? Inside that dark mess? Do you see your nightmares? Your dreams? Memories pass you by like chapters in a book. Channels on a screen. Sometimes you want to shout and scream into the abysse. Are you just a rat in a cage? She hears the creaking of the pipes. She knows the monsters are there. But she wonders if it’s all in her mind. Her mind got her into this mess. Can it get her out or does she need to try to step outside of her own mind. Maybe she needs professional help because she’s too deep in it. She can’t see outside of herself. Trapped. The molecules shaking. The neurons firing. Connecting. Missing. Misfiring. Creativity taking hold. It’s always been a canvass. How are you going to paint this shit? Let it go. Observe it. Where does it take you? Organic. What does that even mean in this machine world. Let it flow. Powerful river. Powerful dam. She feels the texture of the walls. She feels the cracked paint. The dripping paint that has dried, solidified. She chips the paing with her nail. The paint gets under her skin. Cuts her. The dirty old rug on the floor. Stains on the carpet. The smell of mildew. All the liquids and dirt and dust and shit that the rug has absorbed. She slowly feels her way through this room. Dark. Shallow. Barren like a desert. But then she sees ants scurrying across the wall. A family. Life. Hope. And she sees and hears a fly. More life. More hope. She’s consumed by this home. She tries to take it all in. This house. This room. She scans the whole area with her eyes. Her nose. Her hands. She tries to taste the air. She wants to feel alive. She wants to understand this space that she’s inhabiting. This room as best as she can. She scans where the windows, doors, exits are. She scans. She wants to be aware as aware as possible. Again she’s holding too tightly. Maybe trying too hard. So she steps back into abysse. Observing. Letting life present itself. Broken window. Shattered glass. Trash on the floor. She knows this moment could be it. This moment could be her first. This moment could be her last. Might as well live. Might as well try to create something new. Something that hasn’t been done before. Something that maybe no one else could ever do again. She goes for the stairs. Spiraling wooden staircase. The floor creaks. The atoms shift around. Aware of my own bullshit. Aware of my own shortcomings. Aware of my greatness. Aware. Creating and experiencing newness with every single moment of life. I’ve never lived this exact moment before and I’ll never live this exact moment again. Be with it. Let go of it. Push yourself to do something new and better than ever before. Hollow. Depth perception. Surreal. Dreamlike state. Drug induced trance. No drugs today. One moment melting into the next. Molting. Melding. Morphing. Flowing. If life has brought you to this moment then you might as well be in it. You can’t run from your fears for ever or maybe you can but what would be the point of that? You can’t grow that way. You can’t learn. You can’t overcome. Overcome these obstacles. Face them every day. She sees the shadows in the room. They don’t scare her. They are one with her. She’s at peace in this moment. Slowly gliding through this home. Light as a feather. Not trying to intrude. Not trying to disturb the peace. Simply being with it. A part of it. A part of life. Flowing with it. Going with it. This feels right. Like she’s going in the right direction. Like this is where she’s meant to be. She makes her way to the restroom. Small room. Toilet. No shower. Porcelain. White. Mirror. I wonder how many shits have been taken here. How many times teeth have been brushed. How many stories and memories this small room holds. Seemingly unimportant moments in life. Passed through here. Her mind goes back to dark places. Wondering if anyone has ever slit their wrist in there. Popped their pimples in there. Cut their hair in there. Stared and analyzed their face in there. Wondering how strange it is to even be human. Even be alive. Be alive.
By Max Reyes5 years ago in Poets
I AM, HOME!
Are we not whole? Are we not lost? Have we been utterly shut out from our house? Have we been tossed about, given but one chance to mend the broken pieces that form us as a people?
By Jason Smith5 years ago in Poets
Discarded.
While sitting bare upon the chair my body is but I’m not there thinking on the things that haunt me as they dance around
By Jeremy L. Hamilton 5 years ago in Poets
LOGARITHMS SELF ! 29.01.2013, 00:59
Overture in the aorta sinfonietta, surprises with every new second, opens the space, internal layers ............. beautiful
By dominika błażek5 years ago in Poets
Nestled in the In Between
My home is amongst the clouds Where stars litter the horizon like crackles of creation birthed from explosions and the harmonious diction from an idea come to light in your mind's eye.
By Misha St. Aubin5 years ago in Poets
Treks
A dream. A fantasy. A forgotten memory That longingly aches To be pulled, yet again, To the forefront of time. Wandering streets.
By Casey Pitman5 years ago in Poets
heartbeat
Small dandelion tuffs, and lady-bug hugs. Bedtime stories that never seem to end. Moments that I will allow myself to cherish forever.
By Chloe Unfiltered5 years ago in Poets
Home
A place where I can be myself without anyone else. A place of solitude and fortune for thy queen to rule within thee. They say it's selfish. I say it's quite devilishly peaceful if you ask me. I can be on my porch listening to the birds chirp within the ocean breeze. As the water glistens within the sunlight as the kids play in such delight. As I sip on my tea with such glee. I wonder how peaceful it is to just be. Being safely home as these kids play on the beach like it's some kind of treat. When in reality it could be a fatality when all of a sudden my family shows up with some type of causality. Oh no never a dull moment in this house for how could there be when we are all consider family.
By Kalynn Schmoll5 years ago in Poets