Long Surreal Poems
Long Surreal Poems. Below are the most popular long Surreal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Surreal poems by poem length and keyword.
Hey Universe
Why you coming at me so hard?
Did I do some sht to piss ya off?
Or you just playing some evil part?
Its all getting kinda rough
Im not nearly tough enough
To get through this & come up
been kickin me down so much
Im bruised & lumped up
in every possible spot I can touch
I've already accepted i got no luck
But seriously, like what the fck?
You Actin like a fckin schmuck
When all I ever be asking for
Is acceptance & love
Got me questioning what i did
that was so wrong?
Sht been so bad for so long
I just wana finally
find where I belong
I wanna smile forreal n not
Have to fake how I feel
Breaking down every day bc
I cant deal
An honestly idek if
All of this is even real
...I hope not
Thoughts..
We all have them..
Thoughts are with us all of the time..
Time of awakening..
Moment you open your eyes..
Precisely before you go into a deep slumber..
Our thoughts will
In fact effect our dream state..
Our thoughts occur constantly..
Simultaneously..
As our minds race..
And speeds rapidly
Faster then the speed of light..
Set on overdrive..
Time after time
Day after day..
Moment by moment
Second by second..
Repetitive actions on our part..
Repetition, repetition, repetition
Thoughts will be positive..
Thoughts will be negative..
Thoughts arrive from within..
Originated from your inner world..
Will in turn effect your outer world
Without a human thought..
Life as we know it..
Wouldn't be life..
Thoughts turn into beliefs..
Thus then your beliefs..
Create your own reality..
The power of thoughts are surreal..
Empowerment resides in thoughts..
We have accomplished tremendously..
We have invented
Innovative technology pouring and flowing from a brilliant mind..
We have changed the world..
We have literally moved many mountains..
We have created..
We will create
Continue to create..
Foundations of our inner worlds..
Deep inside ourselves
The origination of our thoughts..
Which is..
We give birth to our thoughts
A thought is born..
Along the way
There is an idea..
Ideas manifests..
It all started with just a thought..
A thought has been born..
On top of the world, I stand so tall,
Feeling the wind and hearing the call,
A sense of freedom, a rush of joy,
As if I can conquer all and be coy.
The view from here is panoramic,
The clouds above, looking dramatic,
The Sun bright and shining so bright,
I feel like I'm in an alternate sight.
From up here, everything seems so small,
The problems, the issues, fixable all,
I feel like I can reach for the stars,
Embracing the world with open arms.
The mountains bow down in reverence,
As I revel in this magnificent ambiance,
I am the king of this world, this land,
And nothing can ever diminish my stand.
On top of the world, I dance with glee,
Floating with happiness, wild and free,
This feeling of euphoria, hard to restrain,
As I blissfully scream out my name.
This moment, so perfect, so surreal,
A life-altering experience, one to feel,
On top of the world, I found my place,
And nothing can ever replace that grace.
Mostly an oddball was Magritte
here however a portrait sweet
Usually & reputably so surreal
this 'cig girl' is so so real
Belgian Rene Magritte
whose paintings were so neat
Full of stilled enigmatic
in scenesso idiosyncratic
Rene Magritte so surrealiste
was also a moraliste
His art as a dream
never reveal what they dream
Renee Magritte,an enigma in a bowler hat
I wonder what we should make of that
perhaps they are his alter ego
he never said so we'll never know
so
banal
yet
deadpan
absurd
clashing
symbols
heard
in
the eye
where
imagery
is
all
calling all mistreated jugglers
and wretches of condemned madhouses
bewitched by fingers of freak fame
the spindly fingers of trickster twins
that open the floodgates to occult caverns
unleashing the brusque wraiths
the brittle symmetry of her glacial eyes
cast down from the empyrean skies
as a sanctified abyss from ancient past
eyes as candlelit rectory windows
shining bright like voluptuous pyre
and ferryman’s lantern on turbid nights
calling all gritty peyote coyotes
gargoyles of noxious mind germination
whistling by the graves of stars
in the form of ravenous black holes
so vexed by the self-immolation of lovers
the musicality of their hearty asphyxia
tantalized through thick and thin
falling in cascade down the wailing well
how do we always end up vampirized
singing the longeval sardonic litanies
outliving the meteoric tremors
as monuments of the past tumble down
calling all incorporeal beasts
to swing the fate’s pendulum in effigie
and mourn the motheaten grandeur
of lofty and aged Victorian ancestry
within the reach of eternity’s gate
disemburdened and lost to the ether
melting at last in the muse’s embrace
eclipsed by the fading night gyrations
there’s no excuse not to leave in rapture
one last rainy walk by the derelict wharf
ready to fall down the fissures en masse
into the ruptures of our narcotic glossary
Does a banished beacon beckon?
But of course all beacons beckon
But only briefly if not brightly
Though never as boldly as the baritone
Before balancing bagpipes blowing ballads
But it’s got backbone and backfires
Unlike the babbling bellow of a baboon
Baffling unbelievably because it’s so beautiful
Below bitter backlash in its blackened background
It behooves that a backtalking boyband backstage
Betwixt a balmy bamboozled ballet bandstand
Would betray benign bountiful bequests
Between a bashful baroness’ baptism by barnacle
And a bastardly barrage of barroom banter
But yes all in all the banished beacon does beckon
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on July 1, 2019 for CONTEST NO 620 WITH ALLITERATION STYLE THEREIN sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
Written: September 02, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the tapestry of life, there are times
When fragments of destiny weave their rhymes
Pieces of sorrow, pieces of bliss
Each one a thread, a tale to reminisce
Someone who is lost, someone who is found
A broken soul, wandering around
Finds its way into my world, my core
A connection was formed forevermore.
In the tapestry of life, there are times
When shattered bits fit, such idyllic chimes
The cracks and fractures seem to align.
Creating a mosaic is divine.
Each broken piece has a story to spell.
Of triumphs and struggles, heaven and hell
They intertwine, they mend, and they heal.
Transforming wounds into strength is surreal.
I am forever changed by these broken bits.
They teach me lessons, and they pull me fit.
Into a tapestry, vibrant and bold.
Where scars blend with beauty, untold
In the tapestry of life, there are times
When someone is lost,
Finds its way into my heart, sublime
The hourly benevolence, at any cost.
And those shattered bits find their place.
They cram the gaps with love and grace.
The anguish and suffering fade away.
Replaced by strength and a brighter day.
In the tapestry of life, there are times
When brokenness finds its way into my heart
And those shattered bits fit together perfectly.
Creating a masterpiece, a craft of art
I am forever changed by these broken souls.
They show that beauty can arise from the darkest holes.
They teach me to embrace imperfection.
And find strength in vulnerability reflection.
In the tapestry of life, there are times
When fragments of destiny intertwine
With the threads of my own existence
And together, they create resilience.
A tapestry of life, woven with care
Each thread is a reminder that we all have a share
So let us embrace the brokenness we find.
For it is in those shattered bits that we are refined.
A Lull
An event that surfers know too well,
for it visits upon them, time and time, again,
and upon its occasion, it is best to parley.
Friends are made whilst best friends meld,
as addresses are traded, and rendezvous are created,
amidst an extension of the beach animates itself.
Sets are brewing afar,
yon groups of mixed genders and ages,
a lull recedes.
Into a culminating backwash,
climbs and curls e'er so swiftly to a sought after crested wave,
as surfers break apart challenging a collection of beautiful sets.
As a lull returns,
some left whilst some remain and stages repeat themselves,
essentially, bridges were designed into well-built structures that glisten in the sunset.
2020 February 16
There may be a mirror universe
in which time runs backwards
Hawkins hosts dinner for time travelers
who eat dark matter for dessert
Thousands of Endurances think
critical thinking was just spotted on Mars
where lonely elephants seek scientists
Hawkins finds Planet 9 in a black hole
There may be an information paradox
where elephants eat dark matter
Planet Nine still missing
time runs backward while running out of time
Thousands of acres continue to burn
there may be a paradoxical universe
Planet Nine attacked by RNA
elephants create scientists
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…