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.
C
You're worth the loss of my dignity. A pride that withstands the slap to the face. You disappear only to ruin a good luck streak. I cannot keep up with your pace. You drop me faster than the speed of light. We try and resurrect our failing tragedy. I push you over into monogamy but my hands only grip your shirt sleeves. When you pray, I hope you say my name. What have we done to each other? Is it worth anything anymore? To save ourselves, we must smother. What will we do to each other in retaliation? We are heathens corrupting one another into obscenity. We are savages lukewarm in our cannibilistic nature. It's so addicting this inconsistency. We descend further into foolish territory. There's an inhumane speed to your trickery. A pattern of catastrophic proportions. You are always heard but are unseen. A dynamic of victory and loss. We are on opposite intentions. I tried to change the formula but you are dead set on taking vengeance. You travel beyond the sound of my despair. You hunt further from the light of my convictions. There are universal constants in this world but you parallel only erratic consciousness. You are not a part of this utopia. This negligence is the embodiment of manipulative torture. I can't fix what isn't broken, just unsure. I hope you find the girl who allows herself to suffer. To claim you as my own and keep you still. While you spread your wings and attempt to fly. The black hole in your soul cannot let light escape. I cannot be the only prisoner anymore stuck in time. This treadmill of exertion takes us to the stars and back. I tried to find the right words but come up empty. This simulation has run its course and we are crashing. I'm running faster than the speed of light and now I'm free
By Anna Torres3 years ago in Poets
CoWarDice
I hate cowards. I hate to see cowardice absorb the mind and body of someone capable of accomplishment, far less excellence. What a waste, what a bitter disappointment; a receptacle for genius, a conduit for the ineffable excellence choosing to channel frailty instead.
By Tarik Murrell3 years ago in Poets
LiSten
Sometimes I remind myself to listen. When there’s silence, just listen. Listen to the grass growing up trying to brush the sky with its fingertips, to the concrete straining to hold us together, to us trying to be both grass and concrete. If I take a moment I can hear it all. My mind finally in tune to all the things my ears so diligently deliver.
By Tarik Murrell3 years ago in Poets
