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.
Glue
I am unmovable, I am permanent, I am irreplaceable, I am glue. I have a set mind and it can not be changed. I stand firm on all decisions made, I never shift. I am a force, I am matted, I am strong. I am glue. I am to be taken serious never a joke. I am usually around for a long time, but the day I begin to tear or break down is the day my journey is complete. I am willed, I am tarnished, I am completed, I am glue.
By Robynn Morrison6 years ago in Poets
Stranger
It took me some time to realize that you sent her in your place to tell me all the things that you are afraid to say to my face you choose that off brand replacement Yea very fraudulent and now that im finally over you ,not even mad at you. over being sad about done feelin blue over you and since I been away from you your starting to see that you should've just stayed with me cause yo grass hasn’t gotten any greener and them heart felt goodbyes use to bring tears to my eyes yea you once had gotten the best of me and even then u still couldn't see that you was winning when you had me, so worried bout only giving your love out to everyone but me and now that we've departed you can stop sending your innocent counterparts to spy on me sending the slightest subliminals lowkey saying you miss me tellin the streets that life got you beat and you cant do this without me, bruh please save it and I already know you been hating cause you keep hearing bout me and how I been moving around very low-key I ben so laid back I barley make any noise when im running a muck in these streets yet n still I stay making really loud power moves all year round I don’t never do it for clout n if I do come around you, you don't even speak no words to me u just drop yo head and mourn at the loss of me
By Joshua Norgaard6 years ago in Poets
Crack the Code
Crack the code of my eye and all turns to ethereal tears. Lines that stretch across seas of stone. Every which direction that is sourced out. What is the word for depth without end? The power to grow is the iris of the open hand. Who am I supposed to be? How far must I dig? My spirit animal is a winged Appalachia that sings a theremin. Unleash her with the sacred words. I would give it all away for a little bit more. The only colour that exists in my ice is neon fire. Take shape and mould it into invisibility. It stops fetching evocative and starts receiving undiscovered textures. I have been and forever shall be this moment. You can never take that away from me. All of this comes from the power of one eye. And I have two
By David Fournier6 years ago in Poets
marshen
I'm always running from what's behind me. But there's nothing more scarier than seeing a bear and wanting to understand why we run together. I'm afraid of my reflection. I'm scared of what I see daily. I thought if I changed the shape of my body I would love it more. Removing my breasts, to form what I wanted instead of what others saw me for. A woman. A man. Who am I on the inside. I run, I write, I run and I write. I breathe and I still write. So I guess I'm still human learning to love the parts people don't see. I'm a writer because I say so and I don't care how god fearing or original that is. But a man. When I wake up. A Man when I sleep? I don't know. It's scary how close I was to breaking because I added pieces that would fit the image in my head, but nobody asked about the image. They just saw the bear before I did. They're more focused on the why, how, who, what, where... All i have to say is I'm human. When I write when I breathe, when I think, when I dream? But this body is so close to empty sometimes I wonder am I the pot or the kettle. Am I right or wrong? I feel close to a breakthrough or a breakdown. I lost my mind and find peace somewhere along the lines of fucked up. Who am I really? Well, I'm Marshall first then writing. I had these pieces when I was little and god I prayed that my foot wouldn't outgrow my mouth. I prayed these body parts were made to love. To heal. This isn't for me anymore. It's self healing. I'm a healer. I blossom with roses and thorns, but I cut them off to make room for more. I'm a healer. I talk fast to outgrow myself. I shed my skin like a snake, but I'm a worm... under all this dirt. I'm a healer. Someone said 'if love lives here let it.' I'll be damned if they take my thorns from me before I know how to use them. To trap, to avoid, to comfort, to hug too tight, to have thumbs in hopes i point in the right direction this time. I'm a healer. I write in the form of nails and teeth. I try to bite and taste everything so I heal any parts nobody touched yet. I'm. A. Healer. Sometimes, it's really scary being the bear.
By Marshall Wallace6 years ago in Poets
