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 Flying Boxcar
I close my eyes as the wind rolls through this hollowed body. I feel the wind caress and sway her body back-and-forth, her tired bones begin to creak and groan. It takes me back to a more chaotic time. Oh, the stories this beautiful bird carries. The lives she’s helped and the people she saved. Always there to lend a helping hand, no questions asked. Carrying jeeps and cargo? No problem. Carrying troops? She did that too. She would get them in and help get them out when things went awry. She wasn’t quite a Swiss Army knife, but she did all that was asked of her to help her troops. Now as she sits swaying in the wind her tired bones will never relinquish her soul. Here and her final resting place may her spirit forever live on.
By Natalie Turner5 years ago in Poets
Home
Home is where the heart is/ until that home that was guarded gets broken into and turned broken hearted or the heart that was the home gets broken due to domestic violence and constant chaos of adults that simply can't be adults and communicate/ Home is what you make it/until your creative juices aren't flowing anymore and you can't make anything and you're in a downward spiral of panic naked in the bathroom crying because you feel like your home is not safe/ your home is uninspiring/ your home is a strange place that you don't even recognize anymore like when you look in the mirror and see the person who you once were fade away into the wrinkles and tears that have appeared on your face/ What about homelessness?/Where is their safe place of solace?/They fight for their right to get peace and quiet but the alarm clocks are the whistling and hollering/ their job is shaking cups for change to get some change and find a home where they can lay their weary heads to rest/ While you're sitting on your recliner drunk and depressed/ What makes a house a home?/That's a good question/Is it the company you keep?/Is it being heard when you speak?/Is it kisses and hugs, cuddling and the floor gently creaking when you step?/ Live, Laugh and love/ but what happens when you die crying and hate?/ And all that hate turns into rage and blood smeared all over your grave waiting for you to just decay/ The world continues to revolve as that's your new home/ And new people will purchase the house and it will be their new home/but will it be a true home?/ Will it be new beginnings or a brutal ending?/What is a home?/ What is a safe place?/And does it even matter?
By Jordan parker5 years ago in Poets
