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.
sunshine (10)
I should go.” Eva nodded. “Tell her… never mind.” He hesitated. “You wanna know where he’s buried?” She looked up. “Would that help?” “I don’t know,” he said. “But I go there sometimes. Feels like he’s still listening.” Eva stood. “Then yeah. Show me.” thank you for your time. i really appreciate you taking time for me. this is the end of my story sunshine. They walked together, past the basketball court, past the creek where she’d once waited for a boy who never came. The sunshine followed them like an old friend—silent, warm, and a little bit forgiving.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (9)
“He said he wanted to say goodbye but thought it would hurt more. That he wasn’t brave enough. That you deserved better than maybe.” The tears came faster than she expected. Not sobs, just quiet streams down her cheeks. It felt ridiculous, crying in front of a kid. But it also felt honest. “He was wrong,” she said. “I didn’t need better. I needed the truth.” Jace fidgeted. “Maybe he knew that too late.” They sat in silence. The sun climbed higher. Eventually, Jace stood. “My mom’s gonna be looking for me.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (8)
“He didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he said softly. “He just… couldn’t stay. He was scared.” She blinked. “You’re thirteen. How do you know that?” Jace shrugged. “He wrote letters. I found them after he died. They weren’t to me. Just... thoughts. He talked about a girl he left behind. Said it haunted him.” The sun shifted. The bench, the swing set, the path—they were all brighter than before. Eva couldn’t breathe for a second. “What did he say?” she whispered. Jace looked up at the sky like he was searching for the right words.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (7)
“He used to live here,” she said quietly. “I know,” Jace replied. “He didn’t talk about it much. Said it was all a blur.”A blur. The years of friendship, the hours lying in the grass, the kisses that left tremors. A blur. “Do you look like him?” she asked. Jace shrugged. “Mom says I have his stubbornness.” Eva laughed, a sound sharp and sad. “Yeah. That sounds right.” Jace tilted his head. “Did you know him?“ I did. We were close. Before he left.” The boy looked at her for a long time.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (6)
“You know a guy named Malcolm?” she asked, voice tighter than she meant. Jace’s mouth curled downward. “My dad’s name was Malcolm.” The world spun a little. “Was?” “He died,” the boy said, simple and very unbothered. “A few years ago.” Eva sat down hard on the fountain ledge. “How old are you?” “Thirteen.” Thirteen. Not sixteen. Which meant Malcolm hadn’t disappeared. He’d escaped. Her thoughts knotted fast. He hadn’t been abducted or killed—he’d left. For real. For good. And this boy, Jace, was proof that Malcolm had built a life elsewhere. Started over. Without her.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (5)
He stood across the cracked fountain base, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen, hair dark and wild like Malcolm’s, wearing a blue hoodie too big for spring. His eyes met hers, and he tilted his head. Curious. Unafraid. Eva rose, walked slowly. The boy didn’t move. “You okay?” she asked, careful not to sound like a concerned adult. He nodded. “You live around here?” Another nod. “What’s your name?” He paused, squinting against the sun. “Jace.” The name meant nothing to her. But his eyes… they were the exact shade of storm-grey that Malcolm had. Not just similar. Identical.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (4)
Not for closure—closure was a myth invented to sell grief counseling—but for confirmation that the world hadn't just swallowed a boy and kept moving like it was normal.The bench creaked beneath her as a shadow passed. A tall man in his late twenties jogged by, earbuds in, sweat dampening his shirt. He looked nothing like Malcolm, but Eva still flinched, heart quickening. She hated that. That instinct to compare strangers to a ghost. Behind her, the trees rustled. A bird shrieked. She turned instinctively—and saw the boy. Not Malcolm. Not exactly. But similar. Too similar.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (3)
One day, he vanished. A Wednesday. Eva remembered because they were supposed to meet by the creek to talk about skipping town—just a fantasy they toyed with. He never showed. He never messaged. He just stopped existing. The town said things, as small towns do. His mom packed up and left within the week. Rumors bloomed: he’d run away, he’d drowned, he was arrested, abducted, joined a cult. Eva waited for a real answer, a real goodbye. It never came. She stopped going to the park. Then she left altogether. Now, ten years later, she was back.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
sunshine (2)
The old bench near the basketball court still bore the initials—E + M, etched with the corner of a house key. Eva sat, her fingers brushing over the carved letters. She could still see him—Malcolm—laughing in that sharp, barking way of his, daring her to be reckless, to live without folding every corner neatly.They were sixteen when the summer broke something in both of them.Back then, the park had been their world. A kingdom of curfews, skateboards, gas station candy, and broken rules. They’d lie in the grass at midnight, tracing constellations, making promises too big for their bodies to carry.
By bart santosabout a year ago in Poets
