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.
Katana
You didn't care what happens to me. I stopped caring what happens to you. Transparency was never your strongest attribute nor was your hospitality. Because of you, I spoke melancholy fluently. I was the ocean trying so desperately to wave at you but you were the moon and you wouldn't look downward. I was in the spillways while you were in the clouds. Subterranean tunnels and hot air balloons. Gutterballs and solar flares. You were the gravity in the entire universe while I was dwelling in the mantle of the planet you developed amnesia about. I wasn't authorized to speak up and use my voice. You were the override that rescinded each and every choice. The vagueness didn't add to any absent conversation. Your deliberate attempts at lying were made straight to my face. I didn't believe in gullibility until the veil was lifted. I didn't know my loyalty and dedication were not reciprocated until the very end. Your words couldn't realign with any thoughtless action. Your absent mindfulness sliced through my peripheral vision like a katana. I was always prepared for self-sabotage but this all came from you. Every scenario played out in my mind except for this one. Any sword would have done less damage than what your intentions unloaded. My plans have more velocity and more fury than any blade from any bygone era. This is not my punishment nor my fault. This was the result of incompetence and incompatibility but I kept trying despite the obvious. What a Sisyphean endeavor but I chose to keep failing. You never had access to my heart because it was never yours to begin with. I knew inevitably this would run its course but I hoped it would end at my own choosing. You didn't take the truth with you when you left. The universe didn't throw a wrench into my blueprints. It threw a dagger into my coveted and prolonged suffering. What a weapon to use against my chainmail and unexpected resurrection. I have created my own katana, dripping with ferocious rage and the ability to conquer. Forged with ambition and a sense of renewed purpose. I am my own master and I will slay those who say otherwise. I don't have anymore to give you, not even a goodbye
By Anna Torres2 years ago in Poets
Anger and Going Home - rendition
May 20 2024 10:41pm I am inside the freezer. A home to babies and corpses and a napkin I used months ago. I’m uncomfortable. I’m upset because the bends of my knees feel like some sort of desperate amalgamation of part and tide. Separation doesn’t cure heat sensitivity and a street lamp won’t stress injustice, but they say he knows what he’s doing. He only looks between the rods when our teeth turn brown, so we assemble lasting links and pretend our bodies can survive off of one another. All of this to say, my hunger cannot be given to you, my mother cannot nurse you to sleep, and ziplock bags cannot keep these temperatures livable. You have to find a hand to hold and scrape the plaque off your teeth with the tongue that God gave you.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
