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.
The Webs We Weave
Does she grow weary, I wonder, with the constant task of repair. Is there ever a time she would rather leave the destruction for someone else to fix. If we listened, would we hear her cry out, in the quiet, cursing the sky for the existence she has been tasked with. Does she ever regret her circumstance? Or does she lovingly spin and weave these delicate masterpieces, gracefully content?
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
CONFUSION:
I don't know if this will be approved but keep in mind this is about a beautiful person passing from this realm to the next and it is the emotions of confusion that are at play here, not a rant against god..but the questions that are left open..most notably why? As you can see by the date I wrote it a few years ago but it wasn't approved but I don't recall why or even remember if they gave me a reason..maybe because God is mentioned? I don't know but this is about my sister when she passed in first days of the epidemic with all the same symptoms of it but we were lucky to say goodbye compared to so many people.
By Victor Mendez2 years ago in Poets
Sept 2024 — The Big Fear
9/4/24 — 9/14/24 When the big fear comes between us, I want you to grab the sun with your bare hands, remember what it’s like to be love-sober, before the neighborhood cat was found sprawled on the sidewalk. I wish he would have asked if it scared me or if it hurt me, because all I knew was that it was bad. All I knew was this feeling did not want to be felt, that it had taken time, cradle to grave, to run from me, that I will never be rid of its pot-stuck rice no matter how hard I scrub it. I’m sure it will never be as clear to me as the directions I’ve written you, and by that I mean, can you please guide my wandering eyes through this blizzard? I don’t wish to beg. I spoke to the moon and her crater-painted face, and you would have loved what she told me. I can’t remember it now. Something about a palm-stricken face knocking tears into their senses, forgetting you brutally in the birth of autumn, seasons made for soup and crystal balls, and reminded me the hunger never stops, no matter how many cycles you’ve run that machine. I think you would have loved to hear her words. Just don’t let it come between us.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
