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.

He is always watching
He is a tall slender man His eyes are grey and emotionless He wears dark jeans and a grey shirt with holes in it He does not care what he looks like
By BrePauls6 years ago in Poets
The Cat Next-Door
Sometimes I put too much stock In what you think Of me Of him Of her Of them Of the fucking cat next-door Sometimes I hear you coming
By Jason White6 years ago in Poets
Indigo Caravan
there is a silence of wisdom and a silence of ignorance i wander in both, one is a cave another is an ocean between them, lies a journey that is timeless
By Rashminder Hargis6 years ago in Poets
Requiem of Rot
When I grew I took a walk, T'was long I might have thought Though all of which occurred Is but the requiem of rot. The pass that lies ahead
By MK Callahan 6 years ago in Poets
Sacred
I decided to build a sacred space So I built up tall walls. They were sturdy and thick. I laid the floor. Board by board the space took shape.
By Christine Nelson6 years ago in Poets
I was married once
I am an Evolutionist. In my next life I want to be a barn swallow a percussionist in the cerulean symphony wings pounding wind
By Haze Medley6 years ago in Poets
Secret love, a kind of radiant gothic
The first time I saw you, I was able to see the parallel lines in the red dust, and when I raised my head and lowered my eyebrows, I could take you into my eyes. The distance is within reach, the untouchable is the heart shore, soulful thoughts, a thought long red dust resentment. The sun shines brightly when you can't see the ending, and you don't dare to write the story on a beginning, there is no beginning of the story most complete, complete is a person's thought, a person's thought, a person keep the infatuation full of pay water. The first thing you need to do is to make sure that you have a good idea of what you are doing.
By Guiscard6 years ago in Poets
Left hand youth, right hand years
When I was little When I was a child, I always liked to look at the sky, watching the nebulae change in the sky in a new way. I always sat on a small bench and wondered why there was a black sky and a white night; why there were flowers and plants; how species evolved; whether the egg or the chicken came first.
By Cordelia6 years ago in Poets
Facing Thee
His sword as tall, and sharp as all. Yet, he stood... afraid to face the face of thee. Scales smelted shard, Hell's fires made hard. Red skin not... afraid to face the face of he.
By Lucas Diercouff6 years ago in Poets
A Poem for Kareema
(INTRODUCTION) The diviner of darkness comes to assuage a plight forlorn by incredible mysteries of sound and feel. From retrospects’ depth, we find that we are all a sailing vehicle of pain and triumph, sometimes minus triumph. To try.
By Kofoworola Jose6 years ago in Poets
The Burden
The burdens run deep through my veins as though they are a congested highway during rush hour. I sit here next to myself in the mirror looking at the person that I have become and start wondering if this is what I have wanted for myself or is this the making of a person based off of what people expect of him. Either way, I gaze back into this image of a man that I do not recognize anymore. I wonder where the timeless youth has disappeared to. How can a person be a victim of their own reality?
By Tim Lunsford6 years ago in Poets
The Bottle
An empty bottle falls from my hand as I stumble across the floor. My head spinning as thought I have just gotten off of a merry go round that I was trapped on for hours. I try to stand up but stagger back and forth as I try to correct my vision that is impaired like an out of focus camera. Squinting my eyes to bring the doubles to singles I see a dark shadow in front of me. I reach out my hand to say hello as I feel the sharp cold piercing of needles pass through my body.
By Tim Lunsford6 years ago in Poets