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.
My Mind Is Within a Haze of Uncertainty
My mind is within a haze of uncertainty Over the severe losses It's unreal!... How the dunes of forgotten sand were washed away by water and land. A single tower stands by a cliff-side overlooking the ocean. Eons passed so swiftly and the leaning tower ages; I stand atop it gazing into the melting sunset. And from my eyes comes the blossom of sharp rich crimson flames, like a burning flower in bloom.
By Chaffee Wood8 years ago in Poets
Street Lights
On these nights, in the middle of the street or the middle of the sidewalk, whether we remember what happens on these nights, holding hands, who we accidentally made out with when we were drunk, how many headlights came at us, getting bigger and brighter the closer they got, the number of porch lights turned on when we passed, the songs we danced to but didn’t know, we find a bed somewhere in one of the three hotel rooms, but not the one we were assigned to, or maybe our own bed we place our hands under our heads, curl our knees up to our stomachs, blink once, blink twice, until our eyelids are too heavy to hold up anymore, we blink a third…
By Bella Harris8 years ago in Poets
Lines
On these nights, in the middle of the street or the middle of the sidewalk, whether we remember what happens on these nights, holding hands, who we accidentally made out with when we were drunk, how many headlights came at us, getting bigger and brighter the closer they got, the number of porch lights turned on when we passed, the songs we danced to but didn’t know, we find a bed somewhere in one of the three hotel rooms, but not the one we were assigned to, or maybe our own bed we place our hands under our heads, curl our knees up to our stomachs, blink once, blink twice, until our eyelids are too heavy to hold up anymore, we blink a third…
By Bella Harris8 years ago in Poets
Mirror
I stood staring at a mirror which lacked a reflection beaming back at me; forsaken. It was like I could almost see my reflection, I was reaching out and pressing my fingertips to the cold reflective glass in hopes of seeing anything that could shine the light within.
By Christine Alarcon8 years ago in Poets
Emotions
On guard. Never could have imagined what storm approached from beyond the bright forest trees and soft, colored skies. The storm, often used as a metaphor for a mixture of emotions, is brought on by our own actions. Actions we never thought would make a ripple. The ripples caused waves. As the storm approaches, the waves grow. Sunlight hides behind the storm, but is invisible to the human eye for the time being. We are so blinded by the clouds and the approaching storm, that we no longer remember the sun and the colored skies before-hand. The trees once so green and vibrant, are now ominous. As it is our fault the storm now swirls above us, we must decide what we must do. Most would wait out the storm to once again see the beautiful skies. Others, let the storm consume them. Taking away their voice and the ability to see the beauty in the world. Silence.
By Amber Heck8 years ago in Poets
At the End of the Road
I was there, lying at the end of the road, looking for the exit sign, thinking about how to survive one more day, to dream one more night, to smoke a cigarette and write a reflection, to do instead of trying, to wake up instead of following a routine, to unfold what’s hidden, to steal a kiss from your lips, to be what we want to be, to have endless nights with conversations based on cigarettes, alcohol, and entertainment.
By Juan Manuel8 years ago in Poets
