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.
sunshine (5)
He stood across the cracked fountain base, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen, hair dark and wild like Malcolm’s, wearing a blue hoodie too big for spring. His eyes met hers, and he tilted his head. Curious. Unafraid. Eva rose, walked slowly. The boy didn’t move. “You okay?” she asked, careful not to sound like a concerned adult. He nodded. “You live around here?” Another nod. “What’s your name?” He paused, squinting against the sun. “Jace.” The name meant nothing to her. But his eyes… they were the exact shade of storm-grey that Malcolm had. Not just similar. Identical.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (4)
Not for closure—closure was a myth invented to sell grief counseling—but for confirmation that the world hadn't just swallowed a boy and kept moving like it was normal.The bench creaked beneath her as a shadow passed. A tall man in his late twenties jogged by, earbuds in, sweat dampening his shirt. He looked nothing like Malcolm, but Eva still flinched, heart quickening. She hated that. That instinct to compare strangers to a ghost. Behind her, the trees rustled. A bird shrieked. She turned instinctively—and saw the boy. Not Malcolm. Not exactly. But similar. Too similar.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (3)
One day, he vanished. A Wednesday. Eva remembered because they were supposed to meet by the creek to talk about skipping town—just a fantasy they toyed with. He never showed. He never messaged. He just stopped existing. The town said things, as small towns do. His mom packed up and left within the week. Rumors bloomed: he’d run away, he’d drowned, he was arrested, abducted, joined a cult. Eva waited for a real answer, a real goodbye. It never came. She stopped going to the park. Then she left altogether. Now, ten years later, she was back.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (2)
The old bench near the basketball court still bore the initials—E + M, etched with the corner of a house key. Eva sat, her fingers brushing over the carved letters. She could still see him—Malcolm—laughing in that sharp, barking way of his, daring her to be reckless, to live without folding every corner neatly.They were sixteen when the summer broke something in both of them.Back then, the park had been their world. A kingdom of curfews, skateboards, gas station candy, and broken rules. They’d lie in the grass at midnight, tracing constellations, making promises too big for their bodies to carry.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (1)
Sunshine spilled over the cracked pavement like a golden apology for the night before. Warmth clung to the air, sticky and dense, but somehow still comforting. Eva stood at the edge of the old neighborhood park, shoes half-sunk into soft earth, squinting through the morning glare. The swings swayed without riders. A windless morning, yet everything moved.She had returned after ten years. That number felt too clean, too deliberate—as if she’d been waiting for a round anniversary to justify coming back. The truth was messier. She needed answers. Or closure. Or someone to blame.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
BACK TO THE HUM. Content Warning.
This is a Syfy romance story about two birds who fell in love long ago when they met in a bird shop. Now, Lulu appears again in OUTSTAGES CAFE as a beautiful woman with a bird head. Sweetie & Lulu meet once again. Sweetie was reincarnated as Sweetie. Lulu was reincarnated as a lady with a bird head. This is a fictional Syfy created from my dreams and my very smart parakeet, Sweetie Bird.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
The Saint of Simplicity
In the rugged mountains and lush valleys of 17th-century Peshawar, amidst political unrest and tribal feuds, lived a man whose words carried more power than any sword. Abdur Rahman Baba, affectionately known as Rahman Baba, was a mystic, a poet, and a man of peace whose verses still echo through time, offering solace, wisdom, and beauty to all who read them.
By Muhammad aliabout a year ago in Poets
