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.
A Symphony of Love
In the vast expanse where hearts entwine, Love's melody, a symphony divine. It dances on the whispers of the breeze, Painting skies with hues of ecstasy.
Positivity
"Anyway, it won't last forever," said Chris, "Bless you, you'll die." We giggled Also, everything is better this time. We do not add drugs, mixtures, youth, cardiovascular system.
bishnu prasadPublished 2 months ago in PoetsA Place with No Space
The world beyond sight, the metaphysical world, a touch beyond grasp, a vision of the beyond, there to help you when in need,
James GreenPublished 2 months ago in PoetsIf you read me.
I want to record thousands of portraits with you where I can't capture it with my pupils... I want dawns in your arms, where you offer me peace and I shelter your soul.
Gustavo SanchezPublished 2 months ago in PoetsFLAVOR OF AN EXQUISITE WOMAN
'An exquisite woman is not one who has the most men at her feet, but rather one who has only one who makes her truly happy.
Gustavo SanchezPublished 2 months ago in PoetsClimbing Currents
Climbing the currents again- Cat claws through water Squalls squealing her name She’s at it again, and since then, I haven’t been the same
Tony MartelloPublished 2 months ago in Poets- Top Story - February 2024
The Core
There are winged thoughts in me, And I want to set them free. A spirit crushed does not die But lives on in infinite forms.
C. Rommial ButlerPublished 2 months ago in Poets Inverse
Poem 1 In shadows deep where secrets rest, The moonlight whispers, a silent quest. Through veils of night, a journey begins,
Waqas AshrafPublished 2 months ago in PoetsOur Final Goodbye
The dark room holds no promises, and I give myself over to the unknown. I am unsure if this is poison or merely a cautionary fib.
House SeptemberPublished 2 months ago in PoetsThe Clockmaker's Heart
Tick-tock, the clock sings, a dirge for the lost, Each gear a memory, forever embossed. The clockmaker weeps, tears of liquid gold,
The Teacup Museum
On porcelain shelves, memories sit displayed, Sugar-coated sorrows, neatly betrayed. Each delicate cup, a tear-stained scene,
The Library of Lost Words
Through labyrinthine shelves, shadows creep, Where forgotten words, their stories seep. Leather volumes, bound in moonlit sighs,