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.

Stardust Serenade
She reached up to the night and embraced the heavens. Kissed the sky and asked God why. She couldn't find a love worthy of her spirit so divine.
By Kenneth cruz2 years ago in Poets
Spirit Of The Night
In a Tree Sits the Bird In a tree sits the bird who carries my heart, Spiritually deep, yet torn apart. With echoes of laughter and memories bright,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 2 years ago in Poets
Worth Noting
We’re just bodies, aren’t we? Lost souls filled with bad habits and good intentions wrapped like Christmas gifts, in skin. Flesh and bones wearing the proof of life, like a new tattoo. Given away, for the promise of love.
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
Unfiltered-3
It’s more important to press pen to paper Before the thoughts disappear into vapor But an aberration of the mind Like the clocks chiming
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
Unfiltered-2
Like coffee and cigarettes Unfiltered and raw Is how I draw the thoughts from my mind Sometimes it’s the only way I can unwind
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
Jackdaw Talks
I sat down next to her, Pricking up my ears, Trying to hear what she had to say. She started with a recondite squawk, Later clarified:
By Sun Bee2 years ago in Poets
Unfiltered
Unfiltered and unflattering A little of this A spattering of that I always write off the cuff There’s not much time to think about it
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
When Words Offer Voice
How can I express What I'm feeling, without tongue poets without words
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
Miracles
Threw me in the deep Thinking I would sink, but I'm Walking on water
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
Solitary Serinity
When chaos surrounds Inward is where I find my... "Peace" of paradise
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
Cryptic in Triptych
Prologue Streams of consciousness, for me at least, often lead me and us (where us read me) to interrogate, investigate and conflate the very fibres that make up the me and who that might be. Even when starting along, pulling the anchor aboard and setting adrift on poetic currents and craftship mastery, the still ebb and flow leads towards choppier waters of warring and debating, embracing and debasing ponderings on existence.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
last train to eternity (3)
They looked as desperate as she felt, their eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. She joined them, keeping her distance but close enough to listen. An old man was speaking, his voice barely more than a whisper.
By andor rosen2 years ago in Poets