Long Reinvention Poems
Long Reinvention Poems. Below are the most popular long Reinvention by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reinvention poems by poem length and keyword.
Have you ever cleared your closet?
Relationships are like wardrobes
They need to be reviewed
Have you ever packed your bags?
A heart is like a storage box
It needs to be sorted
That lingering thought,
Pacing around the room
The reinvention of ideas
It is the biggest ever
Looking at the mirror
The admiration of a human being
It is the scariest thought
Am I the best?,
Have you ever cleared your heart
Feelings can be a deception
They need to be evaluated
Have ever packed your makeup bag?
A face is like a hidden mask
It needs to be taken care of
That lingering thought.
Loveless world
You put on your shows
Anything goes
You judge and feed scandals
Your definition of Mercy is critiquing how good someone can handle
So quick to mock our celebrities cries
Instead of seeing through to their lives that are lies
Loveless world
You put on a dance
You never take a real glance
At the head on avalanche
Loveless world
Our children just watch sex and greed
No parents at home to fill their need
Yet we proceed
Someday they are suppose too lead
Loveless world
You put on a blanket
Over your eyes while people are dying
Couldn’t care less and simply stopped trying
Loveless world
Our morals depleted
Our economy is defeated
Reinvention is needed
Yet we take God out of our pledge
Then put a giant wedge
Between our hearts
Tear one another apart
Loveless world
Praises organize religion
And is afraid to make right decisions
Loveless world
Forgot about our relationship
With the one who holds us with his mighty grip
Loveless world
Whenever we fall down
Seems to be when we want God to come around
Can you hear that all too fimilar sound of our
Loveless world
By:Sabina Nicole
I'm sorry
I'm sorry... that I hurt you,
that was never my intention
You are so precious to me,
wish you could see my reinvention
I'm sorry...I was really not myself
You are everything to me,
don't leave me here
collecting dust on the shelf
I'm sorry...I really hope that
it's really not too late
Don't move on without me, please
that would be your biggest mistake
I'm sorry...I know that these are only words
my actions would speak louder, I know
will you give me another chance
for them to be heard?
I'm sorry... for all my mistakes
they were Tsunami like in size
They washed you far away from me
before I ever realized
I'm sorry...for all the things I said
I really wasn't thinking
Now I understand how much it hurt
and why this ship is sinking
I'm sorry...that you don't answer me
answer when I call
I can't blame you, I blame myself...
I blame myself for it all...
I'm sorry.
John Derek Hamilton
June 07,2016
I was raised from brick and limestone pride
in the year 1900—broad-shouldered, square-jawed,
built to guard coins like a stoic sentinel.
Back then, people entered with hats in hand,
voices hushed, boots dusted from the road,
hope tucked carefully in their coat pockets.
I watched farmers deposit the year’s sweat,
watched widows count bills twice,
watched young men borrow for a first horse,
watched shopkeepers tuck away dreams
in ledgers neat as Sunday handwriting.
Then came the roaring years~
silk dresses, quick fortunes,
men who swaggered in with cigars
and left with loans larger than their sense.
I felt the tremor of every risk.
The Depression arrived like a cold wind.
People lined my lobby with hollow eyes,
asking if their savings still breathed.
I held my breath with them,
my vault colder than winter stone.
Decades rolled on.
Checks replaced coins.
Cards replaced checks.
Screens replaced tellers.
Now people tap glass rectangles
as if money were a rumor
whispered by electricity.
I’ve seen prosperity, panic,
jubilation, war, ruin, reinvention~
and through it all,
I’ve stood here,
a witness of every transaction
of hope and fear.
Yet even now, when someone steps inside
to ask about a loan, a future, a chance,
I feel the old pulse stir in my beams~
that familiar tremor of human hope
seeking shelter in my stone.
A century has worn me smooth,
but I remain what I was built to be:
a keeper of stories,
and a witness to want.
MATERIAL SQUIRREL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was an offbeat squirrel named *Madonna,
In sequins and sparkles, she fashioned herself a prima donna.
She shopped till she dropped,
Buying beads and clothes, nonstop
Saying “I’m a material squirrel in a material world, uh huh!”
In the forest, she performed most every night,
Dancing under the moon's luminescent light.
She sang, “I'm a material squirrel,”
Her voice loudly did unfurl.
“With acorns and bling, my life on stage is bright!"
Why gather just nuts?” she was heard to declare,
“When diamonds and gems are priceless, and rare!”
With a flick of her tail,
She forged a fashionable trail,
“I’m a diva squirrel with style beyond compare!
Note*“Madonna Louise Ciccone an American singer, songwriter, record producer, and actress. Referred to as the "Queen of Pop", she has been recognized for her continual reinvention and versatility in music production, songwriting, and visual presentation…Her popular song, "Material Girl," is a synth-pop song by Madonna from her 1984 album Like a Virgin. The song expresses her preference for material wealth over romance and became a pop culture icon.” (Source Wikipedia.com)
Why does delusion seem to be the only reality I know?
Almost never catching myself when my mind starts to go
Is delusion my real reality though?
Snapping in & out of this dimension
Which I should mention,
Is beyond my comprehension of an
Intervention for redemption or reinvention
What's your intention?
My soul can't take anymore pain...
I don't get what you have to gain
From the hurt that I've attained & sustained
I don't think one single person
That I've met was entertained
With how I try to explain the
Change in my world & theirs
It's become mundane at the amount of sht that's become deranged since I've gone insane
...I've literally broken my brain
This vessel is no good anymore
Everything normal has become a chore
I can't endure trying to find a cure
for me being so immature and insecure
It's now part of my allure
I'll get out of this one day.....
Today, my hair is jazz—
wild coils improvising in the wind,
syncopated with no apology.
It scats when I walk,
riffs when I laugh,
and plays the truth off-key
because it knows perfection
never wrote a song worth singing.
Yesterday, it was a sonnet:
tight bun, precise,
each strand obeying metre,
a form I wore to keep from unravelling.
There is comfort in structure,
even if it strangles,
even if it silences the wild in me.
Blowout days mean confidence,
glossy, straight,
as if I’ve smoothed over
every crack in my voice.
But don’t be fooled—
sometimes silence wears a shine,
sometimes the most composed
are the ones unravelling inside.
When grief came,
I braided it into my scalp,
a crown of patience and ache.
Each plait a prayer I didn’t know I was saying,
a slow weaving of control
over what refused to stay.
My fingers worked like monks,
copying sorrow into scripture—
faith in motion,
faith without answers.
I dye it pink when I need to scream
without opening my mouth—
a neon flare of defiance,
a riot bottled in candyfloss.
I’ve been burgundy in heartbreak,
blonde in reinvention,
green when I needed to feel anything
besides invisible.
I shave it down when
the world feels too loud—
when my scalp needs to breathe,
when I crave the unfiltered truth
of being raw and unbeautiful.
It’s like clearing the static
from a radio that’s lost its station,
listening for the silence underneath
the noise of trying too hard.
There are days I leave it uncombed,
unapologetically wild,
because healing is messy
and I no longer care to pretend.
Some knots are earned,
some tangles are sacred.
My hair remembers every hand
that touched me too roughly,
and every hand that lingered
just long enough to soften the story.
Don’t ask why I change it.
Ask what it’s saying.
Ask what I’m trying not to say aloud.
My hair is my composition—
a score of moods,
an orchestration of memory.
It is mourning, reinvention,
a hymn, a scream,
a truth that begins at the root
and rises without permission.
Every strand a line of poetry
I was brave enough to grow.
Torrid sunshine blisters reign on pavement,
that colour coded coffee stain slipway,
bearer of insole-laden footwear,
open source channel for glib hot air calculus from starchy social climber, stock market drivel flies off tongue,
strolling human morph blasé with pin pad digit as foundation.
Monumental science, deep seat hi tech driver,
gigabyte trencherman data daze diet.
Brain spur gourmet chew astride.
Former high school swot an Eiffel Tower skyline ace thrust upon a thrill weaver gold rush,
never found but one can always dream.
YouTube zeitgeist earthling
has this inner sense of being from another planet,
this quaint fast lane time zone voyageur.
Like house trained pets they watch their owner grudgingly abandon sham control.
Wafer thin leash a scrimshaw ornament.
The plot thickens but somehow comes undone,
bit part player yearns holistically for untangled bits with interlocking act,
in depth scene dialogue now bill topper if only it would last.
They long for blue flag coast escape,
homely hide out guest house fringe found loitering perniciously or otherwise.
Birdhouse green leaf copycat
assembly for well intentioned like minds that rarely think alike unless it suits.
Caught between ephemeral impasse and amber moon orb dalliance, their noble quest waylay but an out of date signage in urgent need of reinvention.
The tabby sits back with his cigarette,
smoke curling like a lazy question
over the white cat stretched on a pillow.
He taps his Injecta pen,
studying her pale tail, her unmarked back,
as if imagining stripes is half the art.
Some identities are borrowed, he thinks,
a little ink, a little imitation~
nothing too serious, just a soft suggestion
of who we might become.
He draws slow lines,
letting his own bold markings guide him,
letting admiration slip into mimicry
the way cats copy each other’s confidence.
The white cat doesn’t mind.
She purrs at the attention,
at the small reinvention blooming on her fur,
at the notion that change can be chosen
or simply offered by someone
who believes nature can be nudged.
He leans back, his cigarette glowing,
and wonders if every creature
carries a stripe or two
inked by someone else~
or added just for fun.
How interesting can you be ?
Once whole and confident
Focused Intent
A likely pre set present tense
All my ducks in a row
Ready to cluck out in militant fashion
A prepubescent repetition
Shallow and still
Reflection and refraction
The reinvention of perfection is a fruitless pursuit
Decades of good intentions
Mirrored by calloused intervention
In a frigid current
Bent, by shifting sedimentation,
its perception
Busted back
Crumpled putrid IF- I-CA-tion
Mangled fingerling
Chewed up and spat out
Indistinguishable platitudes
Presented for inspection
Consorted and Contorted
Beyond Recognition
The Reclamation paralyzed, in part, by Bombastic Voyeurs and
The Chief Architect
Whose The Supplicant Saboteur ?