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.

A Morning Of Firsts
The first stream of light to hit your sight. The first yawn you can not fight. The first temperature change as you take off the duvet.
By Paul Crocker5 years ago in Poets
Memory Ghost
you can’t touch me anymore. so why is it that i still flinch when people go in to hold me? why is it that when they raise their hand
By Anyssa Dickens5 years ago in Poets
Granted
Her words are a double-edged sword Sharp to the touch But dull in meaning Drawing blood Wounding friend and foe
By Ria 5 years ago in Poets
The View From my Cube
I live in a small room coated in an all sensory experience of dread and laziness. The tiny cube lends itself better to being a vice for any amount of progress or joy that I might find outside of it. Leaving my cube only means eventually I'll have to come back to it, be enveloped by it's crushing maw of soul hallowing emptiness. People say I'm dramatic, that the cube surely isn't as bad as I've made it out to be, surely a cube the size of the one I'm describing couldn't be so vicious purely by nature?
By Ruby Locre5 years ago in Poets
Between the Sparks
When I hear people talk about “Names Written In Lights,” all I picture Are hot, Fourth of July Nights— Sugar, coursing through sun-burned bodies,
By Jeff Miller5 years ago in Poets
Persona’s
You want to get to know me? I find that funny, because your discovery will vary depending on which me I let you see.
By Ryan Poshusta5 years ago in Poets
Whispers of the Wind
Let your hand float across the page, Like an eagle skimming the surface of the water, With silent, deadly power, Let your mind reach for the stars,
By Emma Howie5 years ago in Poets
Scrubbing Broken Bones with Soap
Sitting on a dusty floor of wood and glass shards, Under a mirror dangling on the wall, cracked jagged in two, Scrubbing broken bones with soap and sewing them with twine,
By Taylor Greye5 years ago in Poets
For Children Who Were Broken...
For Children Who Were Broken It is very hard to mend… Our pain was rarely spoken And we hid from the truth And from the people who truly loved us.
By TheLuckyCanadian 🍀5 years ago in Poets
Tobacco, God, and Bees
I watch the bashful bees Avoiding my eye, And my camera. I smoke one, then two cigarettes, And try to pray. I am rusty,
By Jeff Miller5 years ago in Poets
The Stars Will All Burn Out
The stars will all burn out one day. But most likely, there will be many days before then, Each one divided into portions
By Jeff Miller5 years ago in Poets
Another Kind of Déjà Vu
There are moments when I’m caught By the scruff of the neck Not by the feeling that I Have been here before, But that we all have,
By Jeff Miller5 years ago in Poets