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.
I Am Not a Machine
I Am Not a Machine A rebellion against burnout worship I was taught that worth is measured in output— how much I can carry, how long I can run without collapsing in public. So I turned myself into a system: wake, work, produce, repeat. No errors allowed. No downtime permitted. No room for the quiet voice that kept asking, “Is this living… or just functioning?” They called it discipline. I called it survival. Because in a world that claps for exhaustion, rest starts to feel like failure. You scroll and see the grind glorified— “no days off,” “sleep when you’re dead,” like burnout is a badge of honor you earn by slowly disappearing. But listen— I am not a machine. I do not run on commands. I do not reboot after every breakdown like nothing cracked inside me. I feel things. I break. I pause. And none of that makes me less worthy. I am not a factory of productivity, spitting out results to prove I exist. I am not built to be efficient at the cost of being human. Because there are days when my mind is tired before the morning even begins, when my body whispers “stop” but the world keeps shouting “go.” And I’ve learned— ignoring that whisper turns it into a scream. Burnout doesn’t arrive loudly. It creeps in quietly, disguised as ambition, as “just one more task,” as “I’ll rest later.” But later keeps moving. And suddenly, you don’t recognize yourself outside of what you produce. So this— this is my rebellion. I choose rest without guilt. I choose balance over applause. I choose to exist beyond deadlines and expectations. Because I am not a machine. I am a person learning that slowing down is not falling behind— it’s coming back to life.
By Samson E. Gifted4 months ago in Poets
PRELUDE TO LAUGHTER
Vicki, 1978 I wrote this poem in 1978 at age 28, while working a full time job, attending college full time, and juggling a busy social life. Driving through Los Angeles became the one place where my mind could drift — from concrete and buildings to dreams of green mountains and ocean spray. These images helped me return to that moment exactly as it felt.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 4 months ago in Poets
