Long Rewrite Poems
Long Rewrite Poems. Below are the most popular long Rewrite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rewrite poems by poem length and keyword.
Do some unpleasant memories fade away?
Or does the mind have a protective guard,
That, at times, locks the door to the past,
And shields the soul from agony's crush.
Do some memories serve as wise tutors,
That instructs the mind from time to time,
Lest the brain's library becomes forsaken,
Void of guidance for life's daily challenges?
Memories can plague the mortal mind.
They are often protesting against stiff resistance,
Demanding its rightful role and sacred duty,
To catalog the experiences of human events.
Memories acknowledge good and bad events.
They do not euthanize the painful truth,
Nor do they embellish or rewrite the facts.
They exist, impartial and unyielding.
Memories can be either friend or foe.
Perhaps that's the constant inward fear,
Why we are wary of the sentinel's mind,
Unsure what memory will breach that door
It’s the rewrite of horrors noir, with no thobe, just a Kufi, and dirty black sweats.
Vibrations striking ears with no lobes show precisely how dirty black gets.
A screenshot of a touchscreen keyboard shows the flows when nerdy blacks fret.
Colossal pets are healed and rebuilt by the pens of wordy black vets.
That fish looks good, Girl.
Get the oil ready, while I toil steady on the soil levy, to keep my domain imminent.
I’l be back for lunch, libations, and lineaments, while we plan our way out of cursed tenements.
Massage my back with that juicy a**. Attach a nipple to my goose skin flask, and I’ll revise the countenance on your Tutsi mask, and rewrite the horrors noir.
Tattoo
If love could be written in ink,
yours would be the only story on my skin
not fading, not leaving, but deep within
Like ink that time can never erase.
You're the mark my soul has chosen,
a flame that keeps my spirit open.
Through every scar, through every fight,
you are my dawn, my saving light
You're not just a chapter, you are the
book,
the name I whisper,
when no one looks.
The warmth in my chest, the truth in my
eyes,
the reason the moon still
hangs in the skies.
Youre the mark i cherish, the art i adore,
not just a season, but so much more.
My promise, my prayer, my endless truth
I'll grow, I'll change, for the love of you.
I shattered the glass that held your trust,
left diamonds of love to gather dust.
But I'll be the thread to stitch us whole,
a lasting bond of heart and soul.
I'd ink my change with colors new,
rewrite the patterns I once drew.
A cover-up for the scars I've made,
a brighter design where the shadows fade.
Your love's the art I wont disguise
Not a single line would I replace,
a sacred mark I'll always hold.
Your love is the art I won't disguise
No cover, No mask, no other name,
only your touch fuels my flame.
Fresh ink burns, but beauty remains,
Healing takes time, the skin feels sore,
but what comes after is worth far more.
I'll wait for the wounds to close and fade,
So our love can live, etched deeper than
skin
And when you are ready, whole and new,
I'll stand here waiting, only for you.
So stay with me forever, like a tattoo on
my body,
etched in my veins, my one true story.
Writing fiction
Has no restriction
Unlike the journal writer on the list
Asking ‘what is this’
Raising their fist
Not allowing anything to be missed
Dependent on a quote from someone else
Driving them insane straight to mental health
After a reporter decides they have the space and time
A source says ‘I decline’
Only to call right before deadline
Stating they are sorry
Forcing a whole rewrite to an inch and half story
An author on the other side
Has full control in this information ride
As a writer
A powerful imagination fighter
Creating interpretive setting is the plan
When distributing thoughts the reader will understand
Relaxing and reflect
If the subject matter is interesting and connects
Only fantasy characters get hurt
When throwing the dirt
Story telling made up
While drinking from a legendary bar fly cup
A message is told
Opening communication peacefully soothing the bold
Characters may lie, die, or cry
While others try, sigh, and inquire ‘why?’
These ideas give an author entertainment in their mind
No need to drop a nickel or dime
Encouraging them
To pick up a pen
And weave the scripture twine
Playing God surgically working on Frankenstein
Writing fiction
There is no restriction
Getting one’s way
Despite no pay
Saying it is okay
When tightening the noose
On the artist’s targeted guilty muse
My electronic pen as drunk as a blind bat rattles along the virtual pages of my computer trying to make sense of its staggering direction,
Not knowing which word will next come out of its nib, mainly keeping a balance, endeavoring not to topple over, or to make scrawling blotches on its whitened board.
It is interesting that one can surmise the demise of a pen, by checking the balance of ink life that remains. However if the pen is drunk it will display uneven levels of ink life as it rocks and staggers across fallen white leafs destined to change color.
Many a writer has become an idea dwarf. Hence, what is called writer’s block, sets in. I have found myself down that street a few times and have exercised my drunken pen’s syndrome option to its fullest.
Nothing quite like it though, as this form of writing makes no sense to the closed minded reader, but a satisfactory opt out when the writer’s mind is blocked, to resort to using their drunken pen.
This is a rewrite, because I am firing blanks and this says it all.
In the West, stories are heard, shining at the threshold of a new era,
That we can mold again the raw clay of human nature,
Reconstructing from the ashes of time, a dream Eden, fresh and new.
As if the rivers that traversed the land are mere illusions on an ephemeral map.
We imagine ourselves as demigods in the laboratories of hope,
Where the formula of happiness is recomposed in a crystal test tube.
We forget that we are the tree of ancestors, with roots deeply entrenched in the darkness of ancient tales,
And that each branch carries the endless echoes of those who danced at this old ball.
We dream of an eternal spring, in lands where winter has never shed its frost,
Where we have the chance to rewrite the books, as if the letters were never sifted.
Behind this proud curtain, however, lies the weary perspective of so many generations,
Tapping us on the shoulder, telling us that each "new beginning" is just an unknown past.
Our ancestors are sculptors who made marks in the stone of the time left behind,
We try to erase those drawings, to scorch the garment of rested meanings.
But how can you soar when futility threads scales on your wings of wax?
Towards a day that seems new, but which in the sky of history will only see the old sun speaking once more.
I don't run away.
At least,
Not in the way people think.
I don't pack a bag,
Slam a door,
Leave a life behind.
I just open a book.
And suddenly,
My biggest decision is whether to trust the morally grey prince,
Whether the wolf will come back,
Whether the stars are really falling or if destiny has just learned my name.
For a little while,
The emails stop screaming,
The dishes stop waiting,
The anxiety stops counting every breath.
Bills don't exist.
Bad days don't exist.
The ache in my chest doesn't get a speaking part.
Instead,
I'm walking through enchanted forests where the trees whisper secrets,
Standing on mountains dusted with snow,
Watching dragons paint the sky like they own the sun.
People call it escapism.
Like it's something shameful.
But tell me,
What's wrong with finding a doorway when the walls are closing in?
Fantasy didn't ask me to be fearless.
It just handed me a sword made of paper and reminded me that every hero starts the story convinced they're ordinary.
It taught me that darkness is never the whole tale.
That monsters can be beaten.
That broken things can still be magical.
That found families are real, and love can be fierce enough to rewrite fate itself.
Every chapter is another breath I remembered to take.
Every page is another reminder that impossible things happen all the time.
So when the world feels too loud,
Too heavy,
Too much.
I'll disappear.
Not forever.
Just long enough to borrow a little courage
from a girl who rides dragons,
A little hope from a boy who talks to wolves,
A little strength from kingdoms that refused to fall.
And when I close the book,
I come back.
Still me.
Just carrying a little more magic than I had before
In the spirals of our ancient code lie secrets
No pill boasts on its glossy label:
We are the cradle of the human genome,
Yet our maps remain blank in global trials.
Test tubes filled with our diaspora’s pulse
Are left untouched—ignored by profit’s design.
Prescription after prescription fails us,
Side by side with miracles elsewhere.
Tell me, Western pharmacopeia,
Why ship drugs proven blind to our cells?
Why let our hearts suffer, our livers wear thin,
While your profit margins bloom?
This is not science—it’s a crime cloaked in white coats,
A quiet genocide as lethal as any missile.
Colonial bias got a new skin—it wears lab coats now,
And it bleeds through African veins still uncounted.
To the leaders in ivory towers of a broken state:
Your silences echo louder than your oaths.
You sold your people’s trust
For crumbs from foreign tables.
But we—the children of a thousand tribes—
We are rising not in whispers, but in fire.
Your puppetry ends where our voices begin:
We will build our industries, staff our labs,
And chart every strand of our DNA.
Pharma’s blood stained on our histories,
Indicted by our silence no longer.
We demand justice, recall every flawed pill,
And rewrite the code of care in our own image.
For if medicine cannot learn our language,
Then it shall learn our resistance:
Made in Africa, by Africans, for Africans—
No more sacrifices for their sterile profit.
Written: August 11, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In a world saturated—with eclectic noise,
Synth melodies dance, enticing with poise.
An earworm takes hold—its grip never wanes,
As we crave for a moment to break free of chains
Through the cacophony, a floral dress sways,
A symbol of beauty—a delicate haze.
But beneath its soft folds lie tales untold.
Of war crimes committed, of stories unfold.
In a theater of life—where battles are fought
And the war on terror—a relentless onslaught
Fragments of humanity shattered and torn,
As infrastructure crumbles, a world in mourn.
The echoes of transcendence, elusive and rare,
Whisper in the wind—a call to beware
In the midst of chaos—hope shudders and sighs,
A yearning emerges a craving to rise.
To break free from the dyke that holds us in place,
To find a raw path, a different embrace.
In this moment of darkness, it becomes imperative,
To seek out the light—to be truly alive.
War is papered over with lies and deceit.
Our souls are left with scars incomplete.
But amidst the destruction, a flicker of hope
A chance to rebuild, to learn, and to cope.
Echoes of transcendence—guide us along,
To a place where peace and harmony belong.
So let us embrace the power to rearrange.
And let our moods fly, with no limits in exchange.
Let us rise above the noise and find our way.
To a world where love and compassion hold sway.
For in the echoes of transcendence, we find our voice,
To rewrite the narrative and bear a different choice.
No longer trapped by the chains that bind,
We break free, leaving the past behind.
With hearts wide aloof, and minds unconfined,
We embark on a journey, leaving no soul behind.
Echoes of transcendence—resonate within.
Kindling a fire that spreads from therein
With every motion, we approach grace.
Leaving darkness, accepting a raw pace.
No longer defined by the wars of the past,
We build a future that will eternally last.
With love as our weapon, and peace as our guide,
We transcend the limitations and let our souls glide.
Behind the Pen
(Verse1)
Your going to hear my name
All over the world
It's going to be my poetic lyrics
Everyday , every night
As I grab my paper and pen
The flow begins
To come out , if you want to see what gifted looks like
Hear me out
You have to disregard
Because I work hard on my Craft
I don't want to be in the spotlight
Just my message on the right path
And now I'm starting with me
(Chorus)
I am the voice behind the pen
My message is everyone can win
And no pen can begin
Without a story , you have the right to erase, revise your words and make a change (la,la,la,la)
(Verse 2 )
When I start to write
It dosent matter at all
God gives us a gift
You have to hear him call
Whether you are an artist , or a writer , a police man, a firefighter
A teacher , a counselor , a nurse , a doctor, someone at a school
Give it your all you don't have to prove
To other people who
Always doubted you
Didn't give you a chance
Shake their hand
You are destined for greatness
It was part of Gods plan
(Chorus)
I am the voice behind the pen
My message is everyone can win
And no pen can begin
Without a story , you have the right to erase, revise your words and make a change (la,la,la,la)
(Hook )
The voice behind the pen
Rewrite your story again
(Repeat 4x)
(Chorus)
I am the voice behind the pen
My message is everyone can win
And no pen can begin
Without a story , you have the right to erase, revise your words and make a change (la,la,la,la)
(Repeat until chorus fades)
Written by: Concetta Hardnett
08/29/2021