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larni Sep 12
get you a lover
who takes your favourite song
and rewrites the lyrics
into a love song about your relationship
a M b 3 R Jul 21
<3
i want to rewrite the stars
to you and me
forever and only
love the song rewrite the stars
acacia Jul 16
My tears boil in a kettle over the stovetop, and it whistles
but I don't move for
I am in my own dreamland, it is safe here

In a world of my own I won't have to cry
about not being enough, about not having enough
In my land there won't be any competition,
all of the races will already be finished
My heart will be so big it covers me from head to toe;
every perimeter I walk on I will pump blood into the dirt of the gnolls and dales, nutrition and vitamins fed to every inanimate and animate thing: there is no distinction in my world

I want to be blind to the outisde world,
my eyes shrouded with shimmers and mink fur
I want cherry blossoms to cover each apple on my body,
marigolds shielding my honeydews and my backside
So that when I wake up in my bed huddled in blankets,
warm skin against fresh sea-shelled shell sheets, I can
shower in rain every single morning, bathe in the clearest
puddles every single night

For skin I'd have pink, violet, and (my favorite shade of) blue petals,
for eyes I'd have the smoothest pebbles
My hair would be cascading billowing streams of blue sky
I'd sew grass blades into lingerie, I'd take the Moon and crush her into gemstones
All in this world of my own

I can have wings for swimming
I can have flippers instead of feet
I can have a tail for flying
All in this world of my own

In my dreamland where it's safe:
I'm being hugged by the clouds
I'm dressed in a sweater stitched with the threads of Our dreams,
shoes made of puddles of tears from the lazy yawn instead of pain from my heart;
my heart can be my own heart, my heart can be my heart
My heart will feel only my love and my heart will give only my love

I could freely be selfish with the birds above me,
with the bees that hover the waterbed,
with the smells that linger near me,
and the trees that grow under my feet:

I won't have to share the love around me,
I won't have to give my love that feeds me
In this world that I have created,
I will only have eyes for my world, and my world will only have eyes for me
In this world that I have created,
the world can love me and I can love it back

O, in a world of my own . . .

Though it seemed like motion-sickness, the kettle is no longer whistling and the people around me yell and ask, "What is wrong with you? Why did you leave the kettle on?"

I fly away from them, onto the punch-red sofa
I sit
O, in a world of my own . . .
I wrote the original a couple months ago but only recently rewrote it

I wrote this because we all want to be selfish sometimes. This is a result of that want, that thought to be away from everyone and selfishly have your own land only to you

in our worlds, we all can be whoever we want, do whatever we want because we are not stars, no, we are comets (gods)
Kat Jul 15
Dallas days, smoking in your acura legend,
your face veiled, watery eyes.
Tom, I asked you to teach me poetry.
You opened your dictionaries of devotion -
for me to run away, again.
Under a weeping willow, we dug a hole for a time capsule.
Our lives were small enough for this rusty lunchbox.
See, mine was never a kids’ drawing on the refrigerator,
but a western, a shoot-em-up.
Can you understand, just a little,
how it was home I was running towards?
And still, in strange places
I spoke your language of tenderness,
my extinct mother tongue. With words
so ordinary, so simple.

Those memories
                  the warmth of you
make it hard to imagine 
that you are buried somewhere in Iowa.

I revisited that cow pasture with our tree,
my hands clawing at the frozen earth to get time back.
Tom, you promised me poetry, yet all I can write is
please come back to me
in a hundred variations. How I long
to bargain your soul for mine.
Your little toy airplane, the one you gave me
when we were kids, still stands on my nightstand.
This time let me teach you
about the cruelty of freedom.
Rendition of my poem "Kate's Toy Airplane." This corresponds to something I call poetry in motion – poetry that is not fixed but fluid, there is no such thing as a finished poem. Like O'Keefe who painted her patio, again and again and again.
Neha Apr 26
And every night my love,
I watch you from my window,
Sitting on your rooftop,
And staring at the moon,
Like there's a piece of your heart,
Hidden in it's shadow.

I see it all love,
The way you look at the moon,
Like it's the only place for you,
Away from this chaotic world,
Where you can put your guard down
And throw away your mask.

I watch it every night love,
Your face.
Your face honey, draped in the
curtain of moonlight,
Oh, it mesmerises me,
And the beauty of your eyes,
With the moon's reflection in it,
My love,it leaves me spellbound.

I see it all love,
The way your eyes glimmer sometimes,
And the curve that forms on your face
talking to the moon.
And sometimes,I even see the shinning pearls cascading down your cheeks,
As the cigarette touches your lips.

It's like watching the moon
And talking to it gives you peace,
While looking at your face,
gives me serenity.
I wish someday I could watch the
moon with you and you would watch
the dawn with me,
I wish someday I could rewrite the stars,
And make you mine.
-Neha
IG: @smiling_feather
Our story isn't a poem,
nor a novel to be written.
We can not rewrite the chapters,
we can not rewrite our story.
Only if I could,
I'd write a happy ending.
Lae Mar 3
From the smiles i faked,

to the tears i've wept,

the path i took,

left me lost in just a hook.



If i could just rewrite the past,

i would still bring back us,

back to those times,

where things weren't a mess.
Victoria Feb 19
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
XyL0S Dec 2018
It was so much easier
When I just
wanted it all.
It doesn't seem worth it anymore
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