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.
Do you know my pain
Do you know my pain I sat alone in the corner of the coffee shop, drinking a hot cup of coffee and staring blankly out the window. A crowd of people chattering and laughing swirled around me, but I felt numb. My mind was filled with dark thoughts, replaying painful memories on a loop.
Ramoon MalPublished 6 months ago in PoetsNightmarish Undead Band, You Quiet Hourglass
Bathed in incandescent light & a shower of sprinklers, the drum thundered patternly while a mannequin sang centerstage. Shattering our neck in pendulum-like motion, it accrues within us like hellbent harmony: we can’t breathe until they stop playing.
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsLost Words
When the sun goes down, I like to lay on sunrise sanctums Forget-me-nots sing in the sun freeing the blue inside me
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsI'm Weak
He was a brilliant blue butterfly Its wings fluttering in the gap between his eyelids and chest Glistening strikes of aquamarine and turquoise sprouting from his wings
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsWhite Waterfall
The clouds wash into earth, a waterfall guarding the entrance to the heavens and gods Olympus’ polished marble gates
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsSpider Webs
They’re found in the breaking skin I leave on my hands, inspiration falling with every flake The shard of glass by my window,
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsBlue
I find colours tracing the entrails of syllables and lines. There’re music notes hidden beneath the vowels and periods and every little word has been used a thousand times. I associate family with weekdays, and weekdays with colours. The most calming and beautiful one writes poems for me. I wish I could wear it and hold it in the palms of my hands, to paint it over my body and dye my hair and skin the brilliant butterfly colour. Here, have some blue, calm yourself. Yellow sweaters. Turning blue-knots. Sitting silently in the crying rain. Teeth churning into milk, pooling endlessly onto the rusted rails of an old subway station named red with the Abyss. Forget-me-nots lace the tracks, resembling the liquifying amnesia I choose to forget.
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsGarden of Eden
Dear Lover, Remember the time we visited Brighton beach and we danced along the rocks while Ginger Roots latest hits played on speaker
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsShe was completely empty, never wanting the burdens to end
Oh those mournful sunny days where everything is perfect These open bodies modelled for distribution
Mya DoerksenPublished 6 months ago in PoetsVillage of Autumn
In the Eastern part of the state There is a village right off a plate Where the streets are straight And the people are great
Mother CombsPublished 6 months ago in PoetsSilent Desperation
Awkward silence reigns, Words stumble, lost in the air, Eyes beg for rescue.
Kageno HoshinoPublished 6 months ago in PoetsEchoes of Laughter Lost
In a crowded room, Silence stifles the chatter, My joke falls so flat.
Kageno HoshinoPublished 6 months ago in Poets