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.

Post memories
Disequilibrium Inside I, the forest grows lush and wild after you cut down your lonely host. The crowd blooms from airdrops on glazed eyelids
By Wahyu Gandi G.2 years ago in Poets
Out East, My Knowledge Fails
Goodbye? tears and sweat, I require. Are tears and sweat too much to ask for? Are they really? I think... . .. … not. Tears are not too much to ask, unless you have some weird (no judgement here) tear duct issue
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
The Dreams of an Outback Flower (story + poem)
I can feel myself getting sunburnt. Yes, the sun’s forceful embrace is peeking up from behind me, warming my back but also browning my edges. I did not choose to live here. I let myself breathe. I don’t have anywhere to go, or any way to get there.
By Ruby Red2 years ago in Poets
Late August: Early Hours
Late August, the early hours and noise in my head: Communication within cells Sneaking through tunnels painted serene-green
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
And The Bees Dance
I have honeybees on my ankles And bumblebees for eyes. Flowers are blooming in my bones, Pushing out of my pores. . There are carpenter bees
By Silver Daux2 years ago in Poets
The Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Nine
On this strange morning, I awake with sudden purpose. I must find the king who remains nameless. By the cafe where I first saw him, I idle. The Man Who Can’t Be Moved plays in my mind. I don’t yet know why, but the king means so much more to me, to the realms, than that one moment we shared in the forest.
By Sam Eliza Green2 years ago in Poets
Hiding from the World
I hide behind shadows in a place where the world can’t trace my steps there, I gather my broken breaths weaving them into a cloak of calm
By Dede Pengembara2 years ago in Poets
Whispers in the Tapestry: A Journey Through the Uncharted Mind
Fragments of morning light seep through slits in the blinds, a splayed spiderweb of daybreak that dances upon the walls, like shadows murmuring secrets to the flickering dust—each particle a universe of forgotten dreams, where fingers once touched upon the surface of an uncertain world, where time stretched and contracted, and memories tripped over their own echoes, laughing silently, stumbling over the remnants of yesterday’s promises.
By Eladeo Mallett2 years ago in Poets
The Cost of Being Blind
In my mother's great calming sighs I find solitude. However, I realise that my wax wings will not last. This I can feel from the burning in my arms
By Ruby Red2 years ago in Poets
Pennies
I left you words underneath your mat where you used to keep our keys where autumn is coming in softly this year, gently laying summer to rest beneath our feet.
By R.C. Taylor2 years ago in Poets
A pinch
Dream, illusion, fake vision perhaps With spark, urge, and electric drive May memoirs and destiny strike When I dare to walk, my present of glass
By Matt B.2 years ago in Poets
Goldilocks Timing for Cremation
Somewhere between the strong sense of serenity the studious find in a good book and the maddening melancholy of the poverty line huggers.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets