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.
Blood Red Lilly
This limerick was inspired by RMS's challenge, which I listed below! Enjoy! 🔴🕷🌹 Hello all, gather around! Allow me to impart knowledge that's not talk of the town. Now what I say might sound silly, But my tale involves the red spider lily. And its truth that's quite profound. 🔴🕷🌹 Called Lycoris radiata by science, but Japanese Hell Flower by others, With chilling tales that made many hide under covers. They appear after a rough hurricane season, But let me tell you a reason To fear its elegant colors. 🔴🕷🌹 Where these love lillies sprout, There isn't any doubt That dark spiritual energy will grow, summoning the undead to the surface. Boiling the Underworld's furnace. As the unholy departed meander about. 🔴🕷🌹 What can be done, you ask? Keeping the undead at bay is an impossible task! Honestly, the best I can recommend, Is to grab some prayer beads and make an amend, For anything that isn't a positive bask. 🔴🕷🌹 Surely, something can be done? Oh dear listener, you'd better be gone, If you see this hellish flower in your back yard Saving your soul isn't too hard. When you pray and run! 🔴🕷🌹
By Rain Dayze10 days ago in Poets
I'm Dead
I'm dead. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU!!!! My phone fizzles out in my hand and my only thought is death. Without this tiny device, smaller than my hand, my life means nothing. Everything I've ever created is on my phone, my very soul and all my friends are linked to this mess of metal. I will never meet the only people I could ever trust with my secrets, if I don't have my phone.
By J "Griffin" Rooms10 days ago in Poets
Watching Death's Door. Top Story - October 2026.
Darkened mind, disheartened find. Streaming tears, flowing fears. Sunken dreams, drunken screams. I am spiraling down this rabbit hole as I sit here waiting for death's door to open. There is no light at that door; it’s dark, a cave with no end. My eyes are bruised with nightmares—no sleep day or night. The outbursts are lonely, hurtful, and degrading. I feel forgotten, left behind.
By Rick Henry Christopher 11 days ago in Poets
The Open Latitude
There is a profound difference between a trap and a sanctuary. In a world that constantly demands a performance—where you are expected to carry a specific shield, speak from a flawless script, or meet an overwhelming list of expectations—it takes a massive amount of hidden energy just to keep up the perimeter. It is exhausting to feel like you always have to be a finished hero just to step into the light. When the stakes feel too high, the natural instinct is to pull back, to retreat into the quiet safety of the open road or the distance of a screen, simply to find room to breathe.
By Syl De'Vil11 days ago in Poets
The Architecture of the Echo
For two decades, names have been kept quiet in the corners of my mind. There are phantoms from the deep past, markers of a distant time before the world got heavy, before the beautiful noise of a full house, and before the endless roads that never seem to arrive anywhere. Then there are the steady anchors of the present, the ones who stand just close enough to offer wisdom but remain entirely outside the physical perimeter of the flame. When you carry that much history, you naturally build a complex architecture around people in the dark. You wonder which path leads to an absolute ending and which one is just another horizon designed to keep you guessing.
By Syl De'Vil11 days ago in Poets
