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 Vehicle of Progress
A good way to think about my motivational system - or, rather, the issue I have therein - might be to conceptualize it as the engine of a run-down car attempting to start in a very cold climate. This abstraction applies equally to both the microcosm and the macrocosm; on the macro scale, the way to move towards my goals is to keep the engine running day after day. This enables the vehicle of progress to overcome the initial inertia and begin to gain speed through acceleration, which can be described in more straightforward and concrete terms as a cultivation of certain positive, productive habits that cumulatively have an effect that begins to loop back around and feed into itself. In the micro sense, part of the reason that the engine won't start in the cold is that it is not running yet, in that if it were running, it would itself dispel the cold which prevents it from starting. This is illustrative of the self-perpetuating nature of the issue as well as the parallel yet inverse effect present in its solution; it corresponds to the disparity which exists between the volume of tasks and responsibilities I have awaiting my immediate attention and my capacity to complete them, in that not only would I have less demands on my attention all the time if I did more of them more often, but in addition to that, I experience a somewhat debilitating feeling of being overwhelmed when there is an immense amount of work awaiting and requiring my attention which makes the prospect of attempting to begin almost intimidating - this intimidation is the cold of the climate which is dispelled by the engine itself once it has started.
By Insinq Datum5 years ago in Poets
My World Faded Into Colour
I stepped away for a moment—I began reliving my past an innocent child hurting; from the pain she had sustained. The torturous words left her subconscious—as the wounds on her body pained. Her heart torn into pieces—her dignity pushed away. She stood alone each day—no love had come her way; she began to watch her morals completely drift away. For faith and hope all seemed so far away—She tried to pull it together; She tried to hide away. Away from all this torture—but it just wouldn’t go away. She lived it every day—despite the battles foreseen; she still managed to live. How much could she bare—this all seemed so unfair. The apprehension of her presents became so much more clear. She began to shed a tear. She feared to speak—for that’s what got her beat. She feared to be loved—cause loved is what she’s never been. My past broke me; tore my heart apart; mending it together was the hardest part ever. Today I fear rejection—I fear discrimination—I am just a girl trying to find a new direction. Thinking about how I can live life for today—when will all these memories go away. I just want to be happy everyday and not have to cry in silence as my body drifts away. I want to express my emotions and not feel so numb; maybe one day I will be able to overcome ; all that I have surfaced—in that cruel cruel place.
By Josephine M'Msafiri5 years ago in Poets
