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.
Mrs. Giggilibilgky’s Absolute Perfect Afternoons
Life was such a problem & a worthless thing within your mind / 6-x5-010-x6-5-000-x9856-xx0090xx/ & in death is life & you need to be happy & you need it to satisfy your needs / 01110x95/ & you hear voices & you see things & your psychiatrist tells you they don’t exist but you see them still / you hear them still & they tell you “09595-77xx00” & “this is not real” & you don’t wanna believe them but they argue pretty well so you cry and your dog gets nervous for he doesn’t know what to do & he tells you “do not worry” but you can’t hear him / you can only hear’em & you can’t stop crying so you drink every night ‘till you faint & you call it “your little death of everyday”.
By Alwie Knox8 years ago in Poets
The Island of Oblivion
Where is here…? This land… is not my land. Surrounded by trees and brush as far as the eye can see. Escape? There is no escape. No end—No beginning to this madness. An island? Yes, definitely an island. Around the border areas is this special vegetation. It’s not really vegetarian at all; more so, as just metal beings erected from the dirt, covering the edges of the land stretching from all corners of the compass preventing any ideas of escape to the promise hills from beyond the waters around us. Escape?… There is no reason for escape. The island is alive. It hears all your thoughts and whispers. You are its prisoner. We are its slaves. Mind-washing the brains of its victims into a bittersweet paradise. Talk about escape is futile. You want to be here. You can’t fight it. The island’s power is too great for any human to comprehend the complexity of its intellect. Your beginning; our beginning—never happened. We always were. We always will be. Here; on the island. Its only inhabitants. Join us, brethren. Our fruitless beings will populate this wasteland through means only the island can create. We were brought forth out from the void. Nameless and ignorant; we survive through sheer willpower and stupidity, preventing Lord Death from visiting out doorposts. The threat is inevitable, but the survival is real.
By Robyn Welborne8 years ago in Poets
Universe
I am anything and everything. I am not alive but everything lives in me. I am infinite and ever-expanding. More than a person, more than words, I cannot be explained. Not caged by bones, my only master is God. I spin galaxies as a spider spins a web, each one unique unto itself. I paint planets, like drops of watercolor falling onto a canvas. I have no worries or obligations, I only create and destroy, but there is always beauty in my destruction. With each supernova, an explosion of light and matter echoes like a beating heart. A new star is born, pinpointed across space like freckles on skin. You connect the dots, forming constellations.
By Kylee Stowell8 years ago in Poets
