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 would?
What Would? What would become of me if not for the air I breathe? Would I wake no more? Would my voice be ever silenced? Never to be heard again. Never to feel the rise and fall of my chest as my lungs fill with the breath of life. To inhale no more the sweet smells of nature around me. What would be my final breath in this world?
By Tabitha Baughman5 years ago in Poets
Which Can?
Which can? Which can I be? A strong independent woman? Or this tired, unmotivated mass? Which can I see? A bright, shining future full of dreams?
By Tabitha Baughman5 years ago in Poets
You, I,… We All Are Reflecting
2020 has almost come to an end and is a time most people will reflect. Not because 2020 has been too memorable rather reflections are synonymous with the year's end.
By Nkeonye Judith IZUKA5 years ago in Poets
The Bats
... They come in the night like bats on the wing whirring behind my eyes, writhing into my reptilian brain quickening my pulse.
By Erica Ball5 years ago in Poets
The Red Present
Eagerly the little children, Wait to open me, Happy to see, All the beautiful gifts beneath the tree, They squeal in delight and glee,
By Tiffanie Dotson5 years ago in Poets
Discovery
Not in the mood for soothing waves lapping the waters edge of rhythmic predictability or cascades of light warming my face and soothing my wearied soul. Today there will not be the inspiration of the accompanying gentle wind caressing my hair. Although I am intoxicated in its presence...reborn in the capricious nature of its perfection. Today, a more a brutal reality emanates...a brooding reverie that chases away the calm. A silhouette...faded yet familiar is disguised in the murky distance. Mirrored images of past and present endlessly shift, taunt and tantalize until finally surrendering into a crawl. I am motionless... suspended in timeless regeneration. It is here that "I" is in the diminutive. Human is simply a taste or smell in the collective experience. The journey has been long and arduous...in search of the enigmatic...the elusive ...that which is shrouded in mystery and inspires endless contemplation. I concede to the subliminal vision and the shadowy figure emerges triumphant with a ferocity.
By Jody Dodd5 years ago in Poets
ABOUT ME
One thing about me you should know Once you cross me and I will show To every length away we go Hold your breath I’ll strangle no?
By Haychie_Artist5 years ago in Poets
ME
I am 29, but age doesn’t matter with time. For time does not exist, what is, is Infinite. I am lost, I am here, but I am so far away I can not hear.
By Richard Noble5 years ago in Poets
Blurry Ideals
You are disgusting, I say to the fog covered version of myself. I wipe away the fog in the hopes that it will remove everything I hate about myself with it.
By Stephanie Rice5 years ago in Poets
I am...(4)
I am curious. I love to learn new things And when I encounter something new I want to understand it. I don't need to become an expert at it
By Kaydie Paschall5 years ago in Poets
Welfare State of Mind
The blood on the blade The bullet, the bomb The bank and the ballot The book of Islam Is my common man struggle My herbicide’s noose
By Michael Brandon Marchese5 years ago in Poets
What am I Doing Here?
Rainy seasons never end Just render me a sodden mess Downtrodden in unrest distress Yet sleepy and somnambulant Have bent me to their will’s intent
By Michael Brandon Marchese5 years ago in Poets