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.
ceremony of grief
I walked through days turning into weeks turning into months and years filled with doom. I watched roses bleed dry and die in vain. It left scars on my soul like bullet holes you can't ignore. You hear the creaking bones in the abandoned halls. You notice how the clocks stopped turning as the burning in your ears wreak havoc upon the consciousness. I watched the reflection change. Morphing into decay and lingering in sorrow hoping it claims me like death. Every time I drifted close enough something ripped me from the wounds. I had to suffer it. Again and again. There were soldiers there to hold the fort as I recovered from the burns and the poisons. I would barely hang on and yet they never flinched. Now I see clearly the energy being exchanged. I watched tears drip from the cross within a room full of demons and sin. Drowning in the crucifixion of defeat and deceit. I stared into the oblivion of voids multiplying and collapsing.
By Samuel Bitner5 years ago in Poets
Sala's Internal Monologue
Is this what life has come to? This dreary dull existence? This body is not my body, just a vessel, a conduit for my eternal soul. When this one grows old and withers away, my soul will be born again into a new one. Come into a new being. I watch myself crossed legged in front of the alter, calling upon the ancient powers and I am aware that my life is not my own. It does not belong to me; I am merely a soul manifesting new realities that are never quite right. I hover above myself, watching, studying. The sharp cut of jaw, the highness of cheekbones, the fullness of lips, full eyebrows and thick eyelashes, and hair that lays just right... All the things this human world covets so dearly, but it is of no importance to me, I do not want it. This vessel us all of these things, yes, and it garners me attention unsolicited, but it is not mine. If only they all understood the fleetingness of this life, that the soul defies time, takes up space, cannot be wholly confined to the barriers of a container. Sometimes I overflow, my essence spilling over, my soul energy too much for... this. I wonder if they can see it; I feel it in the deepest reaches of my being. There is no end; just the never ending process of contents spilling over into the vast pit of everything until the time comes to tether to another earthly vessel.
By Cierrah Parson5 years ago in Poets
Nausea
I don't produce a lot of poetry, but when I do, I like to write about nausea. I suppose 'like' isn't the most precise term; I 'like' to write about nausea the way a dog might 'like' to lick its own skin raw. All the same, there's an attraction to nausea that surfaces again and again in my work, and not always an existential nausea, either. When I say nausea, I mean it in its most somatic form: a certain internal quality of unsteadiness, inseparable from the threat of vomiting; spectral in word form but unmistakable in embodiment.
By Samira Daukoru5 years ago in Poets
