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.
Devaluation
Sinister and disloyal. You demanded more from me than from yourself. Inflated ego but you wouldn't take my silence. Detachment was my superpower but you ignored my request. I swore revenge on your betrayal but I'm working in the shadows now. I move in slow motion so you can't catch me in the act. Control is your endgame even after your pretend happily ever after. You projected every possible uncertainty unto me while you internalized make believe superiority. What made you so angry and arrogant? Defensive and oblivious, you purposely made me question reality. Discarded with no remorse. No regard for how I would pick up the pieces alone. Forever obstructing my focus and willpower. Crooked and dilapidated. Bent and twisted and possibly broken. Unrestrained disorder and tumultuous chaos. There's no room left for traitors anymore. You robbed me of equality and never provided me with empathy. There was no peace allowed where compassion failed to tread. What you lack is any hint of composure. You remain primordial and uncivilized. I've picked up my sceptor with fortitude and strength. I've resumed my place on this coveted throne. No more appeasement to a villainous threat. I am much better on my own. I don't want to die just so you can live. I just don't want the terror that you give. Malicious sinner, your deeds are done. You're forgiven by no one. Intentions were always selfish and impure. Your violations do not have a cure. I disagree with every absent excuse. I disagree with you entirely. Thank you for the mayhem but I dared to dream bigger.
By Anna Torresabout a year ago in Poets
My Document of Quantum Hearts
I stand at the new smartboard, smartpen in hand, no training, but nonetheless stood there as someone being told to be grateful for the new contract we got with whatever firm made this smartboard. I stand there with a torn gaze, scribbling equations of hope and despair. In Dublin light, particles of electronic dust drift through the lecture hall, lazy as the years that keep slipping by. In my mind I hear Baudrillard whispering that we live in a world of signs: hearts sold as symbols, memories traded like stocks. Foucault nodding that even our love letters are policed by power. But at this red-faced hour of morning, I swear I can feel something real in the commotion of my pulse: raw human pulse entwined with Marx’s ghost, fingering a rifle of compassion.
By Abigail Goldwater (Guldvatten)about a year ago in Poets
Evanesce
It isn’t how you imagine it. It’s not a linear path to romance or success. Its fulfillment isn’t based on wealth or possessions. How you disappear into yourself is however you wish it to be. To envelop yourself within your own folds and crevices. Beyond any precipice or fissure holding you back. Every unique incision is another way to evaporate into miniscule fracture. How do we dissolve entirely? How do we dissipate suddenly? The only way to know is to simply escape. I aim to lose myself within the confines of myself. To explore every corner in the recesses of my mind. I will swallow myself and regurgitate into something new. To evanesce into the unknown but I know I will know it soon enough. I will claim what is rightfully mine. To find the center of myself as I become transparent. The universe will revolve around me as well as the galaxy. I will go into the void and be one with the grains of sand. I will survive in the abyss as I count the numerous stars in the infinite sky. I will shrink as I erupt. It’s not how you imagine it. It’s not set in stone nor is it preconceived. It’s taking flight to the middle of yourself. What makes you you? What secrets and desires lie beyond the surface of yourself? I can’t tell you how to disappear into oblivion. I can only wish you good luck as you search for the answers to all the unasked questions
By Anna Torresabout a year ago in Poets
Parallel Slates
I know how you feel right now. Deep down inside your soul, you want to be connected with someone who isn’t there or who doesn’t exist, but you wish they did. No matter how hard you pray, and lock eyes with the clouds, you still feel like you’re alone - pouring out your rainy heart, droplet by droplet. The white walls, to your right and to your left, they remind you of your clean slate. What is this clean slate for? You wait and wait and waste? It all depends.
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Poets
