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.
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
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
Forsaken Love
She fell through the heavens the holy one. She got caught in arms that were warm but yet a shivering cold. She opens her eyes to see black eyes staring down upon her. His smile was seductive but yet cold and brittle. Her heart pounded like ancient drums of the past. He whispered something in her ear. His voice was deep and leery. He placed a kiss upon her head and said, "You are mine now." His kiss burned like a cigarette at midnight. She was paralyzed by his dark beauty. Once that kiss was placed upon her head she knew what he was. She wanted to be with him though she didn't know why and she knew that her father God above the almighty would never accept her love for the designated brute of the depths of hell. She knew that she would be forever cast out of the heavens for all eternity but she didn't care. She told the devil himself that she would forever be loyal to him. She already knew that the kiss intertwined them together and she would never be able to break the seal that was placed upon her. So now and forever she is the devil's bride.
By Heather Wheatley9 years ago in Poets
Not Growing Up with Fireflies
Not growing up with fireflies I knew no wonder (NO wonder)(truly no wonder, like some Roman scarred by bloodlust wavingsome bread/circus-tendered hand at some poor soulcondemned to die) which sounds dramatic–save for whenI hit one on a highway choked with tiger lilies,running through the town of Van Leer, Tennessee.I stared, dumbfounded, at the incandescent splatter(like some Roman, with one bourgeois ear to Pauland his Good News that even if you lacked religionyou had nature from the start to prove to you that God existed) and the wipers spread it thin–it faded as the skypaled bloodless into dawn, and I was struck (was STRUCK)(truly was struck, as though some parable had resonatedthrough my thick and Gentile mind) with its climactic disappearance,matching stroke for stroke the spangled cloudless blackwith neon lime, and then the aquamarine with a subtle sea-foam,and then the fading ochre-denim with a fading greenish-grey.Then, in light, of course, a spittle-seeming smear. I trustthe sunshine always to decry the mystery.It does not touch the memory that, clinging, now,invites me to hold forth (like some poor Romansinging candidly his praises to a deaf and dying god)(like some dead god, who, hearing him, must then exterminate humanityto make him see the error of his ways.)
By Devon Heavenshire9 years ago in Poets
