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 Rose In The Dark
The rose in the dark…. Still lingering as if the winter breeze had held it hostage Swept away by miraculous wonder Glancing at the sun, in search for brighter days
By ABJ5 years ago in Poets
the road travels you
either eminently suitable or slashing darkshards dangerous, the way is not always laid with more than the sketch of suggestion
By susan marie loehe5 years ago in Poets
A Peach Tree
The more I look at myself am I me Am I myself The question is as bare as my breast when I lay on the beach with nothing but my mind
By Cynthia Marshall5 years ago in Poets
Stay My Rose
May flowers bring the Mayflower back into a summers day, we...henceforth off into our own world where life seems astray, I mean... most counterparts intertwine with the vision, break loose, stay strong, was this your best decision. Where diamonds grow in the east and it rains love in the west, which opportunity did you favor the best. Let go of your ambitious for a peace maker, amend your best quotes off into ballads of my own doing, you know what you were doing...A dreadful dream, this secret was pushed to the extreme, needed more candle light if they would’ve asked you or me...what do you see...in the morals of sin, I am bounded by fault, exhausted in your name, this was always the game, looking for your happy ending, picked up the joystick, hoisted left and right, why before the x, anointed by pity and stress...on nights like this, I sense closure in your structure, breaking down the substance of love and lust, kindling each word with care, so hard to bare, to each is own, but what’s set in stone, you ask yourself what is the point in staying here…
By ABJ5 years ago in Poets
Parenting
Ode to the Child A Sonnet by kronhoej My active child, you inspire me to write. How I love the way you life, love and smile,
By Mia Kronhøj McShane5 years ago in Poets
What is Death
Something inside I felt it die not knowing, what it could be I look inside seeing what it is, I cry I saw myself die
By Malia Dagdag5 years ago in Poets
What of Me?
These eyes of mine I see but am Blind These ears of mine I hear but am Deaf This mouth of mine I speak but too Little
By Malia Dagdag5 years ago in Poets
The Leap
One step It felt right, it was bright All around me, within me, bright Nothing in my bones said no Seeing what was in front of me
By Malia Dagdag5 years ago in Poets
Don’t Ignore the Little Things!
There’s a danger in covertness, with no reference to that seen in humility. But the type wrecking ‘manifold danger’ while running its course.
By Nkeonye Judith IZUKA5 years ago in Poets
in the crazy
dancing around the sun asking the elements to lend understanding the world shows it's hand as heavy danged if it isn't looking for trouble
By susan marie loehe5 years ago in Poets
Mix of lyrics and poems
Eternally fucked up artist Poem by JD Glasscock Thoughts are crazed rides against the fabric of ecclestial perfidity, warped lids of eyes turned spiraling inward into twisted maccabre breaks into dark alcoves and seedy underlit bars.....too many thighs in short skirts and painted on mimicry of emotives in ruby reds and electric purples.....too much cleavage and not enough heart, too much sweat and not enough truth......it is in the knee scuffed beggar's jaunt where hard blues echos much chewed over sooth to the diadem of art's secrets, the cache of genius and the thin divide of such from the cliff drop of white jackets and chains on tangled up limbs, and it is within this fulcrum of need, in this see saw eternally teetered hunger for balance and clarity that the carved brush of masterpiece stretches, claws it's way into the periphreal of a ghost's tombstone smile.....it is in this much talked about ride that we slide into the want of neccessity and the lick lip teeth first chomp of want, it is within the shadows of these story book trees that we seed to breathe and dream, and fuck and thieve all we were ever taught to hold faith against to not believe, and it is in this shit storm we dig up a modicum of wisdom, a kernal of choyed up worth....and it is within this pit of self escapulated delusional set that we understand in that final push to forever, that we are but a child in the pin point of a thread weaving eternity, and our pitiful grasp at immortality is but the parting of lips to the canvas stretched beyond the loom we do not see and can not fathom....that we are the proverbial ant beneath boot... that we are the garden, and the snake, and reaching of hand to forbidden fruit
By JD Glasscock5 years ago in Poets
The Beast
Anger, it's a Beast That eats me alive, inside and out Boiling and raging, can barely control
By Malia Dagdag5 years ago in Poets