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.
Crack the Code
Crack the code of my eye and all turns to ethereal tears. Lines that stretch across seas of stone. Every which direction that is sourced out. What is the word for depth without end? The power to grow is the iris of the open hand. Who am I supposed to be? How far must I dig? My spirit animal is a winged Appalachia that sings a theremin. Unleash her with the sacred words. I would give it all away for a little bit more. The only colour that exists in my ice is neon fire. Take shape and mould it into invisibility. It stops fetching evocative and starts receiving undiscovered textures. I have been and forever shall be this moment. You can never take that away from me. All of this comes from the power of one eye. And I have two
By David Fournier5 years ago in Poets
marshen
I'm always running from what's behind me. But there's nothing more scarier than seeing a bear and wanting to understand why we run together. I'm afraid of my reflection. I'm scared of what I see daily. I thought if I changed the shape of my body I would love it more. Removing my breasts, to form what I wanted instead of what others saw me for. A woman. A man. Who am I on the inside. I run, I write, I run and I write. I breathe and I still write. So I guess I'm still human learning to love the parts people don't see. I'm a writer because I say so and I don't care how god fearing or original that is. But a man. When I wake up. A Man when I sleep? I don't know. It's scary how close I was to breaking because I added pieces that would fit the image in my head, but nobody asked about the image. They just saw the bear before I did. They're more focused on the why, how, who, what, where... All i have to say is I'm human. When I write when I breathe, when I think, when I dream? But this body is so close to empty sometimes I wonder am I the pot or the kettle. Am I right or wrong? I feel close to a breakthrough or a breakdown. I lost my mind and find peace somewhere along the lines of fucked up. Who am I really? Well, I'm Marshall first then writing. I had these pieces when I was little and god I prayed that my foot wouldn't outgrow my mouth. I prayed these body parts were made to love. To heal. This isn't for me anymore. It's self healing. I'm a healer. I blossom with roses and thorns, but I cut them off to make room for more. I'm a healer. I talk fast to outgrow myself. I shed my skin like a snake, but I'm a worm... under all this dirt. I'm a healer. Someone said 'if love lives here let it.' I'll be damned if they take my thorns from me before I know how to use them. To trap, to avoid, to comfort, to hug too tight, to have thumbs in hopes i point in the right direction this time. I'm a healer. I write in the form of nails and teeth. I try to bite and taste everything so I heal any parts nobody touched yet. I'm. A. Healer. Sometimes, it's really scary being the bear.
By Marshall Wallace5 years ago in Poets
