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.

Restless
12 AM: I’m tired, so tired. I lay here staring at the ceiling, at this black-white of nothing. Then soon the moonlight hits the trees causing their shadows to play along with the walls and painting a picture on this white blank canvas. I’m tired. But I can’t sleep. I watch soon after the shadows start twisting into something I can't seem to describe...
By Cassiie Etienne8 years ago in Poets
Subconscious
You think you’re in control but really you ain't Your mind takes one path but that's just a feint your subconscious alive stays true to itself
By GARY DEAN8 years ago in Poets
Paradise
Paradise which means land of many waters falls… The moment you arrive you are showered upon It’s a warm greeting of cum in and let’s show you around.
By Highlight8 years ago in Poets
You Saw Me Coming, Didn't You??
You saw me coming, didn't you? My broken, fragile heart, already deeply scarred, on display for all to see, crying out for that someone who would complete me, who would fix me, who would share my life and dreams.
By Sarah Warrington8 years ago in Poets
Nyctophobia
You Creep into my existence each night Shielding my eyes from the fading light Trepidation tiptoeing towards heart The increase an drop of a ponderous start
By ° ≫ Astra ≪ °8 years ago in Poets
“Why Fear Death”
Are you afraid of the inevitable? By that I mean are you afraid of death? I mean yeah it’s kinda scary. But maybe it’s how you die not when you die.
By Alex Brill8 years ago in Poets
Cancerous
The colours flash before me Blinding, so I can't see Internally judgemental Is what I smell on your skin So pungent that all I can do is grimace
By Celious Blanc8 years ago in Poets
Witchling
She didn't know She was magic She didn't know That specks of fairy dust Lingered On strands of her hair How long it took her
By A. R. Ambrosi8 years ago in Poets
The Winged Soul
The winged soul of the body that withers soars above the brilliant lights away from the reality of the aging host it resides.
By Callie Cox8 years ago in Poets
Breakable
A broken romance A heart saturated in fearful blood Tortured souls whimpering with remorse Nineteen sixties run through my mind
By Celious Blanc8 years ago in Poets
Where Am I
Wherever I am roaming or dwelling, be it in walking, running, in seating or thought, where am I? Even when surveying my surroundings --
By Ron Gunz8 years ago in Poets
Nice Guy
People don’t care for the nice guy. like the saying goes, nice guys finish last. they much prefer the butcher. and the dictator.
By Andrew Arnett8 years ago in Poets