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 Mother And A Manger
She held the promise of heaven in the curve of her trembling hands, a miracle wrapped in swaddling cloth and laid upon the straw-soft land.
By Hannah Lambertabout a month ago in Poets
Flesh and Thought
Roots twist beneath skin, mycelium murmuring beneath the surface, sending echoes to dendrites stretched like longing, mapping dreams into fragile hymns.
By venusianjadeabout a month ago in Poets
the roots of reverie
our love was a sapling, thin-stemmed, fragile, poised in quiet confidence. it was indescribable, the bliss i felt, growing in your taciturn nature.
By Daniel Kabout a month ago in Poets
The Last Light
The night carried a thin layer of moisture, as if the rain still trembled behind the clouds. On the edge of the old town stood a worn-out house whose window lamps often extinguished on their own. But tonight… tonight a strange and vivid light gleamed from within.
By Anas Khanabout a month ago in Poets
Clawing Harpy
The sharpening spurs my frenzied mockery of jollity The faster I step, the quicker my pain escapes Billowing like fog hovering over the coast of the sea
By K.B. Silver about a month ago in Poets
Rejection’s Echo Room
There’s a room in my mind where every “no” I’ve ever heard rents a little corner and leaves the furniture. The door is always half open,
By Milan Milicabout a month ago in Poets
My Passion and Move Forward
My most passionate admirations is what grounds me, The reason to push on forward is the self help books 📚 like abiding in the Word of God and the value to live free,
By Rachael Frazierabout a month ago in Poets
Roots of Roses
Her smile is worth its weight in (rose) gold. She makes magic of scraps of hopes and dreams. She is broken and bruised and hard to hold.
By Lizzy Roseabout a month ago in Poets
Cells Interlinked
I have felt the body break open before the mind could speak, a quiet rupture beneath the ribs, where heat climbs the nerves
By venusianjadeabout a month ago in Poets
When the Story Forgets Itself
I've been thinking lately that sometimes all I'm good for is bad metaphors and nonsensical whatever you want to call it. Some say art, some say a futile attempt to prove that I am anything more than whatever you want to call me. Working backwards or counting breaths
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
Untidy Memory Drawers
My brain isn’t a timeline, It’s that junk drawer in the kitchen where batteries sleep beside birthday candles and takeout menus from cities I don’t live in.
By Milan Milicabout a month ago in Poets
Yes, Lord
If You call me in the quiet, or You thunder through the storm, I will step where You are leading, Even if the path is far from warm.
By Hannah Lambertabout a month ago in Poets