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.
Other Worldly
We wish to speak to the dead. Mom? Dad? Are you there? You passed on the red lantern to light my way through life without you two. I wear my dad’s shirt and my mother’s robe, your smells intertwine and rush into my nose. I’ve never felt more at peace, more at home. The broom behind me are my responsibilities as the oldest of my generation. No one is there to guide me. My life’s in my own hands, and for the first time, I am free. I have become obsessed with the idea of freedom. My door is cracked open to free the demons trapped in my room. I punched a hole in the wall to free the Titans that live in them. Mom? Dad? I’m ready to set you free.
By Jacqueline Schroth8 years ago in Poets
Starlit Sky
One in the morning on a Sunday night breeds sensations that can never exist at any other point in a single cycle of the sun and moon. Silence, predominantly, is deafening. Shoes padding along graveled roads, pebbles peppering the ground like they were mimicking the stars in the sky. The soft whispers of frogs croaking, crickets chirping, and cicadas whizzing are a music unheard by the bed-dwellers tucked safely in their sheets inside a darkened house nearby.
By Kerrigan Herret8 years ago in Poets
The Vain in Virtue
This contract discloses my final moments. What is a world, with turmoil furnished by the edicts of man? Their temerity to uphold such a corrupt cause, and still find the words to say all is blessed and exhume a hope for peace that is past its six-foot internment. I find nothing but fault in the “perfections” of law, I feel nothing but a wave of somber in the artificial faces of joyous reunion. For you all are blind to the reality of your being; The feeling of freedom is laconic, yet you riddle words to find the socket to the secrets of life where there be no key; Instead of just let it be, you tamper, with no rhyme or reason to your sound, only austere aggression in its’ melody as you kick those doors down. Now, you stare blindly in the face of madness governed by crosses, stars, and bleeding hearts, the symbol of mans’ primal infidelity; To rake over the pining, with false promises, accompanied by the stabbing of your virulent, theistic hypnosis; Thus you have created an army, you have made many in the image of that which forbid you from it; Beguiling thousands into something ephemeron. Look at the world before you, you are what you create; You fear hell but you’ve made disciples out of pawns that will spread sickness and it shall repeat over and over again; Hell is repetition, and it is something you have created beneath your feet, so let them be swept by the speaking-mirror I hold before your court. For time to make change, it first needs to be reset ; Lead those people to the river of Lethe, and let them forget. I decamp from this earth, on which you all have become a cist, I worry no longer, for my life here will not persist.
By Andrew Dearborn8 years ago in Poets
