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.
"LIFE GOES ON". Content Warning.
"LIFE GOES ON" song distributed by #distrokid I wrote this as a poem then decided to produce the poem as a song! We are living in uncertain times of what will happen in 2025. I must admit as an artist, and author and empath, I have been on sharing my opinions about the recent election of NAZIS to the Whitehouse. I am, mixed DNA. My concern is objectively written today, "How can anyone not realize that we are all one human being species with many ethnicities, skin pigmentation, cultures, DNA of mass proportions on Earth of differences in human and the false narratives of bigotry and misogyny are made up by the white male patriarchial society, the ultra-rich who want to step on us like ants?" So, I wrote a positive narrative to outshine the liars and their dens of inequity!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 years ago in Poets
Remembering Nikki Giovanni
Nikki Giovanni: A Voice That Echoed Through Generations On December 10, 2024, the world lost a poetic giant, Nikki Giovanni, at the age of 81. A celebrated poet, activist, and educator, Giovanni transformed the landscape of modern literature with her profound insights into race, identity, and humanity. Her passing leaves an irreplaceable void, but her words and deeds will continue to inspire generations.
By Iqra Jabeen2 years ago in Poets
December Prompts
8:15pm When I think about December I think about light sensitivity. I think about the great conjunction and red hypericum. I think about a hundred oak trees and a meteor shower. I think about the bar cart we made from a lost butcher table and the keychain I got for my mom that now hangs in our house. I want to stop thinking. I want to be in December without an analogy. I want to host the people I love and write letters to the ones I won’t. I want to drink absence over ice and feel it burn in my stomach. I want to step on snow covered grounds and not think about how bad it hurts to look at. I want to hand you a solstice-rimmed glass that tastes like a lost civilization. I want to watch you drink it and realize we are nothing. I want you to speak to me. I want to hear the voice in your head. I can’t hear you. My mouth is a tempest. My body is made of God and Saturn. My heart is the solar equinox and only you can hold it because you are the Sun. It only happens four times a year but it’s enough for both of us. December is the last one. I don’t want to think about how little time we have left. I want to think about the stars.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
