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.
Desecration of the Self
i'm not meant for this worldi'm not built for stress or worki fall apart at the breezethe heat dissolves my seamsi melt with the rainand crumble under pressurei am the flower in the mortarground to dust to make dyesomething beautiful made useful in destructionmaybe i am uselessmaybe i am okay with that facti am made for the pleasurethe moment of ecstacypeak harmony in a dissonant lifeto be put on a pedestalto fall from graceburn to cinder in the holy light of famebecome an icon and an enemyhave my name mean holiest and wickedturn myself inwards so as to reverse my initial roleattack the spine so i may bend easierbuild a palace of pillows and laceturn to dust as my admirers watch in wonderbecome what i was meant to becomea person in two dimensionsnot enough to be taintedbut just enough to tantalizethat is the world i was built for
By A O Beldam8 years ago in Poets
Remember
Remember we are lost and we don't want to be found. Surrounded by the storm of our own making, thunder has become our friend. Love not known cannot be expressed with our natural ruthlessness. Yet abide we die a little inside and each day our old lives never truly fade away. I hold my head up while standing on the edge and for a moment I wish not to be dead. Is that our destiny to hold in our hopes and accept a dying fate, no not I even falling I continue to fly but chaos spreads and you cannot save what was once dead. The anger has tasted freedom and you cannot cage the beast, but for a moment I wish it wouldn't have been unleashed. Forever lost looking for the way out I remember I wanted to disappear but courage has beaten fear.
By Najee Washington8 years ago in Poets
Restless
12 AM: I’m tired, so tired. I lay here staring at the ceiling, at this black-white of nothing. Then soon the moonlight hits the trees causing their shadows to play along with the walls and painting a picture on this white blank canvas. I’m tired. But I can’t sleep. I watch soon after the shadows start twisting into something I can't seem to describe...
By Cassiie Etienne8 years ago in Poets
