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.

Pour Me A Drink
They say friends in low places have top shelf truths in lowball glasses. So I pour all I have never said, salting the rim,
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets
Oh, How Time Flies
It’s been seven hours and fifteen days When we stole away, middle of May We took a drive and spent the day At the dunes sunning and splashing in waves
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
Tracking Time
** It’s been seven hours and fifteen days Still, I can’t find the words to say I watched the hours all melt away From this human vessel of blood and clay
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
Primal Screams
I imagine the pinhead That tears open the door Spilling the unsaid Flooding over the floor Releasing how I feel All at once, bursting free
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
I Don't Wanna Be Nice. Content Warning.
Introduction Armed with "Ten Years In An Open Necked Shirt", I have stolen lines from the poems of John Cooper Clarke to weave this masterpiece. The platform has made it clear that I cannot write poetry (in their misinformed opinion), so I am taking the words of a real, recognised poet, The Bard Of Salford.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Poets
Cries Of Silence
My heartbeat races against my thoughts There they are, on the tip of my tongue Measuring myself to all my flaws Knowing I could never be enough
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
Alice In Chains
my mind keeps hiding in rabbit holes completing the tasks shielding my soul exchanging real for masks like Alice in wonderland
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
My Imaginary Girl
I visualise you lying on my bed, No words spoken, none need to be said, I hold you close in the comfort of my bed, My imaginary girl
By Calvin Londonabout a year ago in Poets
When you were young, your parents didn’t let you sow your wild oats
When you were young, your parents didn’t let you sow your wild oats. Instead, they overly sheltered you and had you eat oatmeal.
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Poets
Hope Sown
She waltzes in and Steals the show, all colorful But yet quite dainty 🌻 All the while quietly Insinuating herself With a peaceful flair
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Poets
Bonfire Smoke
The pyre was built from paper dolls that called themselves men egos fashioned of papier-mâché thin skin that came apart
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets
Apotropaic
An apotropaic prosaic mosaic Founding member of Melancholics Synonymous Happiness taunts us As our ego haunts us A dauntless existence of seeing all and none at once
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets