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.

Messtina
Some pride, my thinking cap’s for crap, it’s on backwards. My corduroy a ploy for impostors; too inflamed or raged to say gee,
By Frank D'Andrea5 years ago in Poets
Woman of Rainbows (Shamanic Journey)
I am Woman of Rainbows This is my Shamanic journey * I close my eyes falling fast asleep Completely aware of my dream state
By Marilyn Glover5 years ago in Poets
Brown
Some think brown is drab or dirty But I see so much more I see the potential, A treat, a gift Or a proclamation of love
By Heather Mitchell Manheim5 years ago in Poets
Coat of Many Colours
Design me a coat that only I can wear, Line it with my life's experiences and lessons learnt, With each stitch sew in my tears and fears
By Colleen Millsteed 5 years ago in Poets
Metamorphosis
Metamorphosis This is a transition— Amidst barrages, perdition, and murky forces. The darkness comes before light As -a -metamorphosis.
By Lori Zaremba5 years ago in Poets
Coat of Many Colours
Design me a coat that only I can wear, Line it with my life's experiences and lessons learnt, With each stitch sew in my tears and fears
By Colleen Millsteed 5 years ago in Poets
Painted Poetry
Somewhere within the subconscious The white magic becomes obvious Somewhere deep we see The ship from the big blue sea It sails at the surface
By Alice K.S.5 years ago in Poets
Rainbow Soul
I am purple; Aquarius. But my aura is green; my favorite color-is my soul; my rainbow grows, but can’t be seen. Without sunshine, without raindrops; tapping my soul’s beat...
By Olivia Ali5 years ago in Poets
Identity
Identity Growing up I was taught unity, how to be on one accord. Somehow my ship felt lonely when some family didn’t board.
By Jessica Porter5 years ago in Poets
Are You Ready?
I am not a joke. For every decision I made, it was heavy. The gravity of my heart and the principles I choose to live by hold depth and meaning. You come to me again and again, hands held out like a beggar without the guts to show me your face. You like to keep to the shadows and flit in and out where only my peripheral vision serves.
By Camilla Siig5 years ago in Poets
Indigenous Is beautiful
Indigenous Is beautiful misinformation about us overflows into the nation on mainstream tv and hate handed down from generations upon generations
By Laila Longshore Longshore-Smith5 years ago in Poets
hex code humans
I see the world in colour Or does it see me first? There is one language; it’s none other than the universe We both expand
By nai5 years ago in Poets