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.

Hearts, Stars and Horseshoes.... Away on a Red Balloon
You find yourself alone with these daily leftover moments of your last, listless afternoons spent floating into the sky of dreams others dream for you. With no one left to argue or ask questions, you get used to the solitude.But with the solitude, what floats away in the merriment of people returns: sadness. A moat of dark water renders you safe in your castle. How do you float now? What saves are the fairytales and stories of the life others dream you to live. These dreams you have when you are awake are either a tangle of briars no one can cross, a sackcloth and ashes worn at the baptism of your life lost. Maybe they are colors that drip from the trees like rain. Maybe they take you away to the world you must see, with people yet to be born, on wings and a red balloon.Over the rainbow of bluebirds, colors paint wounds on your neck and fuel the candle of your soul. Solitude. How dialectic an emotion.
By Chrissy Rubino7 years ago in Poets
She Told Me That Too
She Told Me That Too when she tells you You’re so gorgeous she told me that too when she tells you You’re enough she told me that too
By Kelly Berry7 years ago in Poets
The Poet's Task
The Poet’s Task A poet is a man with words, And words a weapon are. His words are sharply stropped and so He makes them travel far.
By Helen Murray7 years ago in Poets
Notes
I am carved from marble. My skin has chipped and faded. You have left bruises that have become holes. There's a sad hum that sings
By cookie foot7 years ago in Poets
What Happens When We Dream
Burning at zero degrees And infinitely in all directions... That Manifesting Co-Creation A radiating toroidal sphere We deliriously seek
By sean mcguckin7 years ago in Poets
The Unseelie Prince
Never walk the woods at night with anger in your heart. When Winter’s winds are howling, - do not dare to walk beneath the trees when skies are dim and dark.
By Patrick Kavanagh7 years ago in Poets
The Blacksmith
The hammer strikes the fiery steel, The sparks, like fire-flies, dance and wheel, The anvil rings out like a bell, A slow, relentless, steady beat,
By Patrick Kavanagh7 years ago in Poets
Truth Be Told...
I know you feel that feeling too, Don't sit over there playing games now, That feeling we get when our thoughts align Leaving our minds intertwined,
By T. Skye7 years ago in Poets
Poetry ♡
Recorded a poem :) If I Disappeared What would happen if I just disappeared tomorrow? Would anyone even notice; would anyone even care?
By Sky Boivin7 years ago in Poets
Dodging Bullets
I gradually wake up to the smell of burning incense & hearing my parent's voices on an old karaoke machine. I sit up to rub my eyes as their voices intertwine into a sweet melody. Having heard stories of the khmer rogue war stuck inbetween their native tongue, their encounters of flying bullets reminds us to move to the rhythm of every beat. They danced together on this foreign land knowing it's far from perfect, yet they were taught to make the best out of these situations. I seem to remember the early mornings at the temple. I start by praying for better days, as my mind wonders off to think if I'm even worthy of that. Bent out of a position, my leg fills up with static as it falls asleep to the sound of chanting monks. My eyes eventually becomes a television screen, it connects to my broken surround sound system where my stomach rumbles out of hunger. The sound echoes across the room as the embarrassment carries me outside. Strange. I see a monk discreetly smoking a cigarette, he puts out the ashes on the holy ground. He stares back at me and exhales a cloud of nicotine addiction onto my face. The remaining second hand smoke kills my appetite, it buries what's left of my happiness in it's place. My thoughts becomes a new warzone. It tells me to start dodging bullets.
By Kevin Khim7 years ago in Poets
The Veil of Pain
despair enveloped each waking moment from early morning til late at night a shroud of grey wrapped tightly around like bandages that
By Glen McKenzie7 years ago in Poets
Nosferatu
The smell was acrid and yet metallic The darkness of the night was a backdrop of infinity The rhythmic sounds soon became very vocalic
By Vinn Black7 years ago in Poets