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.

Photograph
There's a voice in my head Spitting reason. I can't deny A choice I've neglected. Afraid to choose for Myself. There's a consequence
By Penny England9 years ago in Poets
Poet to Poet
bold strokes on an empty canvas photography and seeing existence through a photographer’s eye / angles shadings themes
By Torey Seymour-Russell9 years ago in Poets
Midsummer Day's Dream
Trolley rails burrow in the charcoal black asphalt, purple and green and yellow beads dangle from tree limbs and mingle with
By Makeda Jackson9 years ago in Poets
My Brush and Canvas
Late at night here I lay awake wishing upon a star It's 3 a.m. yet all I can think about is death Here I lay wishing I could sleep and never awaken to a new day
By Yer thao9 years ago in Poets
Pickle in a Jar
Preoccupation with internal frustration has me pickled in a jar, and I'm not going far. I'm turning sour and cold. Some other being has control. When and where I'm consumed will soon unfold. Can I revive back to fresh? Vinegar in my flesh has cleansed my mortality. As far as morality, some like pickles. I shouldn't trickle on the thought of being forgotten. If I was a cucumber still, I'd be totally rotten by now. I was picked. I was tricked. Went for a swim under the rim. Turned sweet. Under the lid I hid before I bid ado. They chewed me up and swallowed me down, but the looks on their faces were upside down frowns. I admit that this is kind of sappy, but I'm content with the fact that I made you happy.
By Alexander Hanebrink9 years ago in Poets
He Will
So, what now? She asks herself. She moves her hair with a simple blow. She reaches for her friend she hid on the top shelf.
By Tanaka Madzima9 years ago in Poets
Clover Scratch
Mr. Scratch is tired of old Americana folk songs He can’t even propose to a girl without her mouth twitching The South does that to a pretty girl
By Bogdan Zaharia9 years ago in Poets
Why
This is your prison. This is how you die. The light flooding through such desperate eyes. This fragile lifetime, that tragic death, no one is promised another breath. Spend your time wisely. Hold tight to your dreams. Things in this life are not what they seem. Illusions of comfort, and tyrannical fear caged in the same body year after year. Anger and rage housed in benevolent calm, and hatred and love like a soul shattering time bomb. Drifters in space, So helpless, and unaware cling to the face that doesn't look as scared. Searching for love, and planning such meanness, they say every soul has its own million reasons. Live, laugh, love, die, rinse, repeat, and always ask why!
By Ashley Harper9 years ago in Poets
In the Garden
The light overhead had begun to grow bright, and the tallest of the flowers opened its petals to the light, spreading its leaves so that it would get the benefit of the warmth after the cool of the darkness. The smaller plants all around it continued with what they had been doing when the light had faded into darkness, the way they always did.
By Aurora Skye9 years ago in Poets
Dance
You are not movable You are stone I am water Crashing over you, Slowly discoloring your surface Sometimes I am fierce Filled with decisions
By Samantha Elmore9 years ago in Poets
Don't Wake
Keep your hand in mine Just one last time. Don't let go. Hush down now. Rest your head. Close your eyes. Relax against my flesh.
By Shelby Hill9 years ago in Poets
Serenade Dreams
The tap of a stone at my window Wakes me Crawling out of bed Eyes Red Open the shades Evening dark fades To morning blue
By Lon Casler Bixby9 years ago in Poets