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.
The Burden
The burdens run deep through my veins as though they are a congested highway during rush hour. I sit here next to myself in the mirror looking at the person that I have become and start wondering if this is what I have wanted for myself or is this the making of a person based off of what people expect of him. Either way, I gaze back into this image of a man that I do not recognize anymore. I wonder where the timeless youth has disappeared to. How can a person be a victim of their own reality?
By Tim Lunsford5 years ago in Poets
The Bottle
An empty bottle falls from my hand as I stumble across the floor. My head spinning as thought I have just gotten off of a merry go round that I was trapped on for hours. I try to stand up but stagger back and forth as I try to correct my vision that is impaired like an out of focus camera. Squinting my eyes to bring the doubles to singles I see a dark shadow in front of me. I reach out my hand to say hello as I feel the sharp cold piercing of needles pass through my body.
By Tim Lunsford5 years ago in Poets
strangers in the night
Strangers in the Night I. Bitter Limes I down three lemon lime bitters and two gin and tonics while I wait for Dad and I’m looking at a massive plasma TV in the lobby that’s playing images of a bombed-out town somewhere, and then it turns to an add and there’s blonde and tanned girls in bikinis in Palm Beach and there’s a slogan, flashing in letters that are red, looking like finger-drawn blood dripping, saying Are you happy? Are you good? as if that’s the same thing, and I adjust the cigarette dangling from my lips, across the lobby of the Four Seasons, a pianist playing Candle in the Wind and below an enormous picture of Goya’s Yard with Lunatics and Dad sighs, strokes his blonde hair, his skin is an orange tan, and he asks about the usual things, passes over a silver box that has a watch in it, the metallic shine blinds me, and I nod, as he goes to the restroom, leaving his Oxford suit jacket resting on the chair and I overhear an old man, his skin stricken with lines, talking about how it’s a ‘crazy world out there’ and I gaze at the windows, snow beginning to fall, and I’m about to leave, drain a final glass and head back to the flat, for Dad to find my empty chair, the muffle of lost conversations floating through the hall of the hotel, but an envelope drops to my lap, yellow and stained, and I slip my hand beneath its papery cover, revealing a cheque of dollars, twenty thousand of them, and that’s when the night turns.
By Toby Pickett5 years ago in Poets
A new path....
Sitting on a road that is not well traveled you find yourself alone. Nothing around you for miles, no one to hear your voice, no one to lend you a hand to help you up from your sitting position on a road that is nothing but dirt that blinds your vision when the wind kicks up. You hear a voice telling you to get up, a voice that is ultimately telling you that no one is going to walk this road for you. You get up and brush the dirt off of your pants as you notice the sky around you turning dark. Which direction do you go? How did you get here? Where is here? These questions start pondering in your mind as you start walking, not knowing where you are headed.
By Tim Lunsford5 years ago in Poets
