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.
The Doomsday Shift
H e r e I w a s s i t t i n g on o u r f r o n t v e r a n d a w i t h m y g r a n d so n , B u d d y , a n d m y d a u g h t e r - i n - l a w , C o n n i e . W e w e r e w a t c h i n g f o r a n y o n e w h o m i g h t s h o w — u p b e f o r e t h e s h i f t s t a r t e d . M o s t o f t h e o t h e r s w e r e a l r e a d y i n t h e b o m b s h e l t e r , f i n i s h i n g o f f t h e l a s t f e w t h i n g s t h a t h a d t o b e d o n e . M y t w o s o n s , B i l l a n d S t e v e n w e r e c h e c k i n g o v e r t h e g r e e n h o u s e s t o m a k e s u r e n o t h i n g w a s o v e r l o o k e d .
By Darlene Dawson8 years ago in Poets
Beautiful Destruction
Heavy smoke. Short breathe. Lot of screams melted in a loud sounds of alarms. I woke up gasping for air but my lungs were filled by a grey smoke. I coughed and I tried to reach my window. I wiped the glass and all I saw was darkness and hurricane-like fire. People left the place. Ruins and ashes were all what was left behind.. All of this was inside of a body held in it all this destruction. This pain was in my heart, kept there, Sometimes in the darkest moments pain turns into a strong non-feeling of nothing. At this level precisely, I was kept from being continually exposed to painful experiences. At that particular time I gained some force to endure more. Sometimes destruction is the best way to build better things.
By Dhouha Shili8 years ago in Poets
Death: Two Ways
I sat despairingly in my dark and lonely room, thinking desperately of how to escape. All was quiet, eerily quiet. Though suddenly a harsh knocking on the door broke the silence. Warily stood and brushed down the wrinkles in my clothes, not that it mattered, and reached to open the door. Something inside me screamed "Don't open it!". But some unseen force pressed me on. As I opened the door I gazed puzzled, this man looks familiar. He wore a dark cloak and grinned a menacing smile. Suddenly it hit me, "I know who you are! You aren't welcome here!" I shrieked then tried to slam the door shut. I peeked through the little window hoping he would be gone, But no, Death still sat waiting at my doorstep. "You have twenty minutes!" he hissed then chuckled a hateful laugh. "But I'm not ready!" I pleaded as I grabbed all that had some worth to me. My good deeds and little idols I kept. Fear clutched my heart, seizing it in its mighty grip. I stood frozen as my door flung open. My time had come.
By Autumn Brown8 years ago in Poets
Dual
“To be vital, and nourished. To view life at its purest. No definite title for the objective view, a thousand words and sounds to give anything close to a clue of what is true. I lie cause the truth hurts. I tell the truth cause the lie is worse. A blessing and a curse, but not really what it seems of course. I dreamed and felt it. I woke up and it left me disappointed. The truths and the lies are often double jointed, hell, mine as well be flexible to fit the scale. I failed that was a lie, I failed that was the truth. I succeeded that was a lie, I succeeded that was the truth. Either end of the stick can be proof of the vision that became the decision”.
By Trai R. Hawthorne8 years ago in Poets
