Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Raindrops hit my face, soaking from the frustrations of the world. Skin numbs, I can't control my actions... So much anger built up inside, how do I hold up?
Bump in the Night
Your eyes hang low, Your breathing slows Dreams hover in the night Images hanging just out of sight Wait, you think, something is wrong
My Original Poem
The void expands beneath my wasted skin, No essence, room only for sin. Sat in a cage far away, To rot the years, the centuries, away.
My name is dirt, I'm no longer clean, I have evil in me, I have evil that takes me sometimes, My past is full darkness,
A Beautiful Mind
it’s like walking on a beach the sun is warm — kissing each cheek the sand hugs your feet followed by the rushed calm waves
She walks with this care free attitude. Her soft yellow summer dress swaying in the breeze. Stopping by a garden to pick a flower,
Floating and Falling
I feel like helium trapped inside a balloon Light and transparent Just floating along with the wind Traveling without a purpose, Inconsistent
Into the Night
I lay among sheets on a warm dark night, Eyes wide open, spirit wanting to roam. I look out to the stars, relentlessly bright
I forbid the crazy day I let this happen. I should be planning much more than this. This “trying to figure out” thing… This “coming up with ideas to get paid” thing…
Blue blood rushed beneath pale skin breathing against city lights. Orbs of light entangle the hurried bodies carrying darkened souls, chapped hearts, fading voices.
Let me tell you a story. Of a wayward girl, with stardust in her hair On her face, a map of the world. She walks between the rays of the setting sun,
I grew thinking blue was the best color. And of course, I still do. The sky on a sunny day, and even the beautiful oceans and seas.