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.

Foolish Spring
The hot and cold of the spring is here again, Not as tempestuous as it was when we began, But dark and desolate as we start to grow older than.
By Jennifer Gulbrandsen5 years ago in Poets
Unfinished Business
If today I were to die, I think I know who’d weep, A crying jag for some, For some a moistened cheek, A swipe of the eye, a blink, blink, blink. A sigh of relief?
By Denise Shelton5 years ago in Poets
Stand My Ground
Stand my ground? Well look at me now Daddy Aren’t you proud? I was lost Now I’m found. Yeah my mother I really loved her It’s fucked up she died instead
By Amanda Maples5 years ago in Poets
Depression
You are an abyss You slither through my veins You are my dark cloud no one sees You are a forbidden fruit I didn't ask to taste.
By MiiMii Jean5 years ago in Poets
The Man Who Awaits Death
I've always been alone. Every day I go out to sea on a small flimsy boat, just on the verge of breaking apart. I've decided that if it breaks it breaks, if I die then I die.
By AI5 years ago in Poets
Life is fragile
Talking with a friend today, things weren’t going great. Not to worry it’ll be ok, She couldn’t elaborate. The Dr seen, and tests were run
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden5 years ago in Poets
Utopian Sea
Sea levels rise with my tears I see you on the horizon. My body falls, the heart was stolen, A soul was broken. The hopeless screams share my fears.
By Sofia Duarte5 years ago in Poets
The way I choose to walk.
Barren land, once was a plain, never hope for a harvest to bring, Desolate strand, drive insane, no hope for the heart to sing,
By Jordan Zuniga5 years ago in Poets
Soul Searching
She carries me, my soul. My aching, tired bones wrapped in weathered skin that sheds and thins and fades like pages torn of overuse and reading myself over
By Kaitlin Oster5 years ago in Poets
Letters
The day after the new moon we remembered to write on napkins and burn away the past. I wrote how a place can change in no time and both of them wrote how much we crave a definition of self inside the bounds of dim lights in a lower east side club— But we remembered nothing lives except in wisps of smoke, in ash and singe. We burned away those futures on the sidewalk, and the city whirred. It hasn’t even noticed yet, but we remembered and we hit our heels on the concrete. We make our own shapes.
By Joe Nasta5 years ago in Poets
Wakes
The leaves sounded like the waves beneath them, both roused by the breeze that induced the peace of the place. I had built it that way; kind and inviting. It was tranquil, for now. Though I was relaxing on the cliffside, I knew it would end. My paradise was too inviting. And as soon as I thought that conscious thought, I saw the first boat on the horizon. Its sails, tall and proud, were leading the fleet that was hidden behind their grandeur. A few more blinks and I witnessed the vast armies of the dawn conquer the skyline as they approached the shores of my kingdom.
By Chandler Olof5 years ago in Poets
Island
I'm sitting on an island Thinking of you Running out of time and go fast The clock strikes twelve and it is time to begin.
By Anouk5 years ago in Poets