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.
Dear Pain
Dear Pain, Itās like I met you before my parents, a desire you had long before my birthday became a number that I carried. Fired on the logos, for the pathological ways you designed. You knew how much your burden was something I never desired. I always inquired that Iāve been through much, yet never making excuses constantly picking you up. Youāre like simple math, I add you take a way, then you multiply in the face of pain, you never subtract unless itās from me. Betrayal came at a price from you to me. Your elastic agile function comes with a functional structure, categorized horizontally on a multifunctional structure. The surface where I met you felt like a pit, caved in my own carbonation, but blistered instead of bubbled from laying in your shit. Your fire was a blaze that burned long before these pages. So today, I want to write to you from my heart. Itās just me and you, no kids, no lovers, no distractions from your covers. I need the truth. Why did you choose me before I ever knew you? Was it my past life? Iām just trying to figure out, I know you canāt have pain without purpose, so I scribbled you out. Letās write this out loud. You scream when I touch a place that you try to pretend to hide. Did I leave you with no protection? Did I forget the goddess in me was a woman breeding as my own intellectual? My desires for growth leave you clinging more. I let you walk away with no words, yet you remind me of the pain, that hurts more. Was it my childhood trauma? Or is it the fact that the only woman I had to honor was my mama? Iām asking. Iām saying dear pain what are we gaining? We keep getting back together just for you to do the same thing. You keep treating me like my lover, you come wrapped as a gift, if death and life lie in the power, why does it seem like Iām befitting the thrills? And you keep spinning the wheel. You come in, leave me abandoned and broken, you tell me you love me but only when Iām healing. You make no sense to my antelabium, speaking once without a seance is like chanting at low volumes. You come without being summoned, you hurt without being wanted, you harbor the pain from my insides to break me more for your laughs and my cries. Making me feel less of a woman. Youāre cruel and insular, unusual in your way of thinking and always playing with the ventricles of the heartbreaks being encrypted. I delete you and you find ways to come back, I heal and my mind changes only for you to attack. Dear pain, you ache and I donāt think you know. You can only show up in the ways in which youāll know that Iāll grow. Eventually you know Iāll have to let you go. Not divorcing my lover, but divorcing my somber, the tears versus the joys when I can embrace my summer. It is the pressure that comes with a life being reborn. If I wasnāt given over to pain for the process of being won, how would I know that the games you play are because of how I get things done? We role play the same! Youāre Dick and Iām Jane, we just āGo, Go, Go,ā and you come āIn and Outā, as if you have no place to go and I havenāt figured this out. āI See You.ā Dear pain, I donāt do refunds or exchanges, this is your final notice, itās time for us to become strangers.
By Charelle Landersabout a year ago in Poets
An Invisible Route, Unearthed !
O! Look! Thereās a mirage fading into distance as it perpetually grows, For here comes evanescence, receding in illusive glows ! O! Look! As evinced, a path takes on its own road, even if, the darkly, dingy, dangerously floatsA roadmap to prophetic insight āfor those valid timeframes to gradually unfold; Herein, the adjusted delays, as reasons in season, timelessly scaffold ! Forthwith, thereās also gazing, both in and out, progressing as though āloafing bold, Yet far afar thereās whimsy parting, and on it, the clemency of nature is brought up close! Yes, all along those diurnal roads! Adjacent, thereās a place where the golden gardens glowAnd underneath its torpor, ever in endeavor, that ephemeral earth, glides into heavenās holdFetch it, to know it, for what it is , before any other captures itās pristine soul ! O! Look above not below in spirit ! Thereās cumulus radiance, painted to perfection, founding of which, many have ventured, unto other thresholdsThere, where the earth and the skies by ways of a zillionth, unite fourfold, Itās that divinity beaming bright, right over the horizons, so seemingly transposed ! Ā© āļø Madhu Goteti, September 17th,2025
By Madhu Goteti about a year ago in Poets
If My Dreams Had a Soundtrack. AI-Generated.
If My Dreams Had a Soundtrack When I wake, silence greets me first. Itās never complete silence, of courseāthe faint hum of the fan, the distant thud of a neighbor closing a door, my own breath rising and falling. But compared to the night world I just left, it feels empty, like the orchestra has suddenly walked out of the pit. My dreams always carry music, though I canāt say if itās something I invent or something borrowed. If my dreams had a soundtrack, I think it would be stitched together from all the half-forgotten songs of my life, reassembled into something that knows me better than I know myself.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Poets
