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.
Omission of Dissonance
Natural flow of words my mind lets go. Without trying my brain ignition becomes composition. Such things like haste, and all time I waste. Who is pulling the trigger? Who is the happiest grave digger? Simple, I spew off words my mind construed. Do I really want to murder people with the God forsaken truth? So brutal it might rip their heads off and leave their bodies like a cooked noodle. Koo koo woo hoo, eat shit, love is the truth. All you leave behind are your deeds. Are they good or bad seeds? I'm happy to know what sadness tastes like. I'm stronger knowing what weakness breeds. Ya, eat shit if you plant bad seeds. I'm loyal as a dog, maybe why I walk in this fog. When it clears the sunlight glints off these fangs. Good Lord I'm strange. Beware I feel I've become an animal somehow. Do wrong near me they'll be nothing saving you now. We are all brothers and sisters and children of the same world. If you've come to hate, it is my fangs you won't appreciate. Remember, caring is what made me crazy. I'm a pacifist to a certain degree. Push me and the animal is the last thing you'll see.
By Garrett Jair Lang8 years ago in Poets
The Wait
It is not what we consider as a tentative state, when we look into the matter, which requires waiting. Some of us, who have experienced life with worn out slippers, know this inevitable phase profoundly and well. We happen to meet a bunch of people on the other side of the fence, accustomed to their influences, connections, networks, privileges, who try to opine their road map as similar to us. But then considerable and countable few "of us," still linger in the waiting room. Often perplexed by the fast forward pace of the fenced out people demonstrating their smart moves. Fenced out, because they hardly would shuffle back towards the bridge mood, being Busy with their Hot Soup gulped with forks.
By Suvadeep Das8 years ago in Poets
