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.

Apothecary
We Ran with fever in our bodies and favour In Our hands to the towers where nightfall Dark Red broken skies mirrored our behaviour
By Basiiraa Moosa6 years ago in Poets
the one inspiration
To accept we didn't know and are forgiven that silence was mandated but smiles sights and words nicht verboten that there is a time
By susan marie loehe6 years ago in Poets
Contemporary Alchemy
A mothers screams Turned to bad dreams Motifs and rhymes to hide and disguise in melodies I spent my teens Smoking weed and evading police
By Ezra Berkman6 years ago in Poets
Chains unchained
My dress is a white that shouts new life. But my hands soaked in the blood that runs through my veins. I wipe my hands of blood onto my dress.
By Jor 6 years ago in Poets
Bleed Out
In all of our humanness sometimes we forget about the immortal soul housed in our fleshy, bleeding-out muscle that pounds so deliberately just beneath the surface in its flesh cage...the heart.
By Kimberly Deluca6 years ago in Poets
I’m going crazy fighting fate with dollar signs
let the pen slide off the hinges, breaking the door down to a barrier barricaded by darkness and procrastination. This pen of mine, I mean this weapon of mine, knows no harm.
By Loading...6 years ago in Poets
something along those lines
What is important to me may not be equally significant to you but how come you have all the power and I have to do all the work?
By philocalist6 years ago in Poets
cycle
and then, we lose things, and people, and things, and people over and over and over again but when will we ever learn?
By philocalist6 years ago in Poets
Standing
in my skin and watching from this distance that invoked oaken passage opening go within to see the other side first inhale the fresh and the green
By susan marie loehe6 years ago in Poets
rumination
Titi Rell, After our conversation on that v e r y long drive from a very l o n g island, I found myself in deep reflection and ruminated for hours on the idea of what happens to roots unrooted. What indeed happens to unhealed roots? What are the ways in which they manifest and spread while twisted, bruised, bent, bare and beautiful. What are the inevitable growing pains that beckon the journey to . . . healing? I sat there for what felt like hours but quite possibly could have been but twenty minutes. I became immersed, metaphorically, in the water. In it’s reflection, I saw myself. Literally of course but also. . . . I saw myself, and you, and Mama, and Big Momma, G-ma Lula too. I saw our collective memory and our individual walks.
By S Blanch Byer6 years ago in Poets
The Great Divide
I feel it again and again it keep coming back holding me in its tight hands and I wake up thinking circles never ends
By INQUIET6 years ago in Poets
Abandoned Nature
Woke up to the bird chirping It is 3 a.m. the sun start to rise as I rub my eyes. A chill rub my body I notice I am in the forest
By Shayla Barnhart6 years ago in Poets