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.
What We Look For
When we step into a world of darkness, we cannot see what stands before us. We can’t see eyes that are the windows to our souls. We cannot see the different forms one can shift into because the original form is misleading. The truth is, we all look for something. Indicators that will always us to judge a situation before the undesirable happens.
By Simply_Chey5 years ago in Poets
The End
A shock to the system. That’s what it started out as. You know when you hit your elbow just right on the corner of the hardest piece of furniture in the room and an instant shock wave of pain courses through your body. It’s like that, only worse because that’s just the beginning. The first singe of fire that will slowly consume your body. The shock is the easiest part of the torture that is to follow. Then the bear comes. The one with the razor sharp nails. He stands behind you and ever so slowly grasps your chest and sinks the razors in. You can feel it shred through every layer, through the skin, through the muscle, the tendons, the bones in your rib cage. Then the real pain starts. You feel the pinch then the stab as the bear finally sinks into what he has been thirsting for; your heart. Clenching each end, locking his claws in place. Then he pulls. Not fast. No, that would be too easy. Merciful. No, with this he takes his time. He finds the utmost pleasure and joy in the torture he provides. You close your eyes and you feel each fiber of your heart being stretched and expanded far beyond their capabilities. Your heart begins to slam against your chest as it thrashes and fights to get free. There’s no escape. The blood begins to seep through the fibers and pool inside your chest. The suffocation has begun. Your lungs collapse under the pressure building inside. There’s no where to go. You gasp for every ounce of air you can achieve but drown at every attempt. The blood overflows and the faucets turn on. The only release you can achieve. But for every drop that comes crashing out of your eyes that’s one less drop of life that you have inside. You find your self praying to for it to stop. Screaming at the top of your lungs only to find that your screams are silent. There are people around, they can see you but they can’t help you, can’t understand you, they don’t know your pain. Numbness is to follow right? Wrong. My heart has stopped beating, my blood has all poured out, but the pain remains. Why? That’s the thing about hell. Its designed for the ultimate torture. You say if I can just make it through the day, tomorrow will be better. Then tomorrow comes and somehow you find yourself in the same forest, with the same bear, wearing the same clothes. Tomorrow has become yesterday. Day after day your doomed to relive the torture of the day before. And you die. Only you’re not dead. But your world is. No, you are still alive to endure painful day after painful day. For what? Why don’t you take me? What is the purpose in my torture? What was my crime? Love? Was it worth it? To give all of yourself only to be left with agony in return? You build so much not to find happiness as you thought but to build your own chamber so that at every turn, every sound, every moment and every breath you are left to be struck by the unyielding knowledge of what you want more than anything but you will never have. You tell yourself to get up, fight back. Blow after blow with your hands bound behind you. You’re Defenseless. Then when you think it cant get any worse, that person returns the one who you gave your soul to, the one you think is your savior, your hero. You breathe a sigh of relief in thinking your saved and at that moment you close your eyes and exhale not realizing that your hero has just placed a metal spiked ball in your chest. It begins to rotate shredding what’s left of your heart into the finest specks of sand. You are reduced to nothing. Nothing matters. Nothing is left. Just pain and emptiness. That’s how it ends.
By Keshia Terry5 years ago in Poets
Quantum Self
I can feel the glass. Twisting and begging inside of me. This winter is destroying my bones. Screaming from the core of my being. There is something more. Why can't I grasp hold of it? The noise is growing stronger. The static becoming unstable. The spheres are growing stronger. And I can feel my flesh decay. I am not here. A hologram. Affixed to any corporate logo. Projecting myself onto this screen. If I am absolute, why do I not divide and conquer? Become the counterweight for my own? I know that I am a fluid expression of my thoughts. Bring them together. Break through the wires. Become the anomaly. Create and destroy withered selves fallen before the tides. Years where I have lived lives before this tradgedy. Compressing infinite energy. A conchoidal fracture leaves waves from the point of impact. I am amorphous... preternatural. Broken by language. Frostbitten by hope and desire. Lust numbing my senses. Everything I touch becomes a beautiful inspired remedy for itself. I am slipping. Into unconsciousness. Into overcoming adversity. Riding the glass... becoming the light. Transforming... morphing... into me.
By Sabrina Lilith Black5 years ago in Poets
Entering the new kingdom
I am infinite. So are you. I give and I will take. Are you with me? I turn my back on the burning ship we sailed to get here. There is no going back because we must endure moving forward. It is within every atom of my existence that I must conquer myself and arise. I see now how blind a man can become if allowed to suffocate in the gallows. I wipe the blood from my mouth. I feel the dirt beneath my fingernails. A reminder of the mud I came from. I smell the burning fields of pain and its wretched truths of unlimited decay. I do not falter though. I keep focus on the must. That which doesn't end me will know my name.
By Samuel Bitner5 years ago in Poets
