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 Prayer
As we brace for change, let’s all bow our heads to his amazing Grace. In Yeshua’s name. May we pray. Dear Heavenly Father, I know you can see, the weight of the world has been heavy indeed, we need your decrees, your wisdom, your light, to shine abundantly in this horrible fight. We march, we scream all for our needs, we speak from our knees as we plant more seeds. More seeds of hope that one day, peace becomes the resting platform of the chosen. We search for essence, just to match our potential, been in situations that blocks our intentions, manifested in wholeness, tried to call on a breakthrough from practical emotions, yet still we feel defeated. Fighting in our Egypt, the wilderness is cold, you always see it, you gave us mama and a new fight for hope. We search for our leader to call upon our needs, not patronizing the fact that the pews need to have seats. Your alter was built on the back of your strength, your word, the creation that empowers this nation. I say father God, I draw near to you in these times with a heavy heart. Modesty and humility leaning on your conviction, the predictions, but everyone refuse to accept the premonition. The gifted left in a field wandering, knowing that the land is milk and honey, but hungry still. In the stillness of this peace, you’ve centered me to see that the cornerstone of rock bottom has been the alter to my callings, yet some refuse to retreat. Not fighting a battle that’s yours in deed, in my God like energy you bestowed upon me. You poured into the cup, it overflows from your love, your mercies multiplied through the mirror of your son. The sacrifice of consciousness, how do we imply wisdom, learn from the last mistakes it’s called repentance. I stand in intersession, not in the intersections, can’t rush through traffic you’re the only direction. The pressing, the oil, the refined testimony that’s already won again. We come to ask for forgiveness from what we did to your son, we come to shower the joys of love that’s given to us, grace and hope, happiness to be woke, desired to be love. We thank you for choosing us and we already know there’s no one else above. As long as there is the word there is law. And as long as there is law there is man, thank you Heavenly Father, once again.
By Charelle Landersabout 2 hours ago in Poets
Who is Fate
March 5 2026 Forgiveness is a man I met last night. The moon was stuck behind a building and I couldn’t climb anywhere near it. He told me my efforts were hollow— God bless your mind but it’s got no use here. Craters dug into my palms by his crescent nails left me with brandings— belonging to a foe is more than belonging to none at all. More implication, more value, more sense of thing; so I ask Forgiveness a series of questions and he does not answer. What am I meant to do? When the moon watches me and I cannot return the same. My nails have been gone since the second my teeth grew tall, so I am left taking and never giving. I am left in darkness with no moon and no place to be, no thing to which I belong, a foe’s mark and rigid divots in enamel. If every part of this body is branded, where will my soul continue? Where does it stop now that I am fluid in daytime wires? Lampposts line every street forever and he knows I’m weighing them down. The power’s been out this whole time. Can I ask you one last question? Who decides my fate now that I’m dead?
By Olivia Dodgeabout 23 hours ago in Poets
