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.
B O N E S
There's nothing left. No doors to open. Nothing worth Pursuing. . Autumn breathes Its cold breath Across flowers Still dreaming Of their blooms. . They'll die. And nothing Will be left Except that Creeping frost. . The thing Touching Flowers with hands Meant for Metal. . The petals Drop And there's Nothing left To save. . Pretty flowers. Wind-snapped flowers. Hunched flowers. Writhing flowers. Aching flowers. . Is this what fate Has in store? A blossoming Beautiful only Because of its death? . Then I am doomed For a peak So gorgeous That the stars Fall at my feet. . Weeping from the Cosmic Knowledge That this Binds me. . Will the sorrows Ever Exceed Normal human Limitations? . The rules Will be Defined By the bones That remain. . And I am Destined To go up In smoke And flames. . Because the Bones I'll leave Behind are Beyond Beautiful.
By Silver Daux5 days ago in Poets
Half Truths
My mom’s closer now to seventy than fifty, and I’m more scared about how I’ll be able to pay rent than how I’ll be completely, painfully alone. That’s half true, if at all. It’s like dropping your cigarette on the sidewalk and watching as it bounces into the grass— you stomp on it a little harder because it’s more likely to spread. I guess I’m as scared as I should be. It’s going to kill me, probably. Fear is capable of that. Anyway, the sparks wouldn’t die so I picked it up and put it back onto the concrete where the bottom of my shoe finished the job. She’s been asleep since before I lit it in the first place.
By Olivia Dodge6 days ago in Poets
