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.
"HUGS NO HATE". Content Warning.
This is to inform humanity that I do not write 'just about myself'. I use I because I wrote it. My writings, songs, art, & music are all about you, everyone, they, theirs, them, them, her, him, he, & me. I have authored many stories since I began publishing again in 2023. I chose a lot of my teenage poems to publish in the beggining. I have spontaneously authored other stories, poems, song lyrics, videos, & my own short piano tunes. The stories, & 'all that jazz,' are written about humanity. I know there are a few people who think It's all about me, but 'no way' it's all about. We all live, love, hate, sleep, eat, & go about our chores, our work, our studies everyday on life's highway.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 years ago in Poets
Her Pain
I should’ve cut you off at the first sign of disrespect, but I felt you were worth more. You played the game in front of my face and I decided to want more. I gave you another chance, against my better judgement, friends kept asking why I love this man who is definitely in love with another. See I believed in your deception, kept lying for discretion; was your bitter secret and your heavy burden even kept uplifting you through my encouragements. You played me like a sour skittles left me there in my sweet bitterness. Yet, you carried around my heart as if it was something that was freely gifted. I gave you what you didn’t deserve. So the next time I choose to love again, I will make him earn this loving dance. The flowers, the rain the joys of sunshine all comes with the walk of pain. See I gave you what I didn’t see in myself a potential to break at your exit, but my existence should’ve been your acceptance, yet the foundations of me crumbled. I stood tall but only for a little while until I was surrounded by my sinister somber. I believed you were the answers to the problems I had endured, that’s why I went so hard for you. Gave you more than I ever could and I didn’t want a gift card from you. See your cheap desires of love comes from the broken bottles of a bloody heart that beats only at your push to start yet your monetary value decreases every where it turns. I gave you a drive while you were my drivers Ed, I gave you my intellect and that explains why you love my head. You played with it on levels I never thought I could reach, my deepest desires my crazy secrets all bottled up in my creativity. See I showered you with respect and even loyalty. I held right to your secrets while you kept ignoring me, deploying me at your ownership like you were my sole proprietor, you couldn’t deny my love for God and him being my soul provider. That angered you, it made me see that the mistakes I made were made for me, a deep seated root buried beneath a surface humbled by the grace of truth. See I recognized you when you wanted no recognition, I scanned your face in hopes that it would detect something you felt you were missing. I was your third eye but the examination was an example of my breaking f there was my light you wanted to dim all for her saving. See it was my youth that carried me to a past emotional scar that took its shape like embroidery and you still keep carving me only to my craving. I invited you in so in so many words I allowed you to break me!
By Charelle Landers2 years ago in Poets
Trilobite
*This poem is another piece I wrote while in college. It has undergone a few edits.* They found it in the attic, shoved in the corner of a half-empty cardboard box. Shaped like a flattened egg, like a tailless horseshoe crab, graphite gray, a series of carpet-creases slinking down its back. “This used to be alive,” her father said, tossing it up, from palm to palm. Bury it then, she thought, her eyes leaping from the fossil to the insulation-wound still waiting for drywall-suture to the fossil again. “Millions of years ago. Little terror of the sea floor,” he continued, smiling at it, then at her. “Here.” He placed it in her hands, cradled, the weight scratching with insect-prickles up her arms, burrowing behind her eyes to pupate. The nightmares: it molted like a cicada, crawling on centipede legs, pincers at her ankles. She cocooned it in mud only to wake up to it by her bed, clumps of clay crusted into eyespots. “Take it back,” she cried to her father. He laughed, ruffled her hair and sat it atop his desk, turning it so she could feel its stare.
By Hannah E. Aaron2 years ago in Poets
