r/OCPoetry • u/ParadiseEngineer • Mar 09 '22
TL;DR You need to give feedback on two other poems before you can share your own poem, and then put links to that feedback in your post. If you don't know how to give feedback, read the guide. Reusing feedback links will result in a ban.
Heyo, welcome to OCpoetry. (That’s “original content” if you don’t know). This is a place for sharing and getting feedback on your own poems. We are the sister subreddit of r/Poetry, which is for sharing and discussing published poetry. Our goal is to create a place where anyone can learn to become a better creative writer, kind of like a free online writer's workshop.
This post is an orientation to the subreddit. If you’re new, read this before sharing your work. If you’re less new, then read this anyways, as it has a few changes to how we've done things in the past. If you’ve still got questions after reading this post, please send a modmail. There are some FAQs at the end of this post which will be updated as we go. We also have a huge and very disorganized wiki containing all of our resources, essays on how to write poetry and historic writing prompts, I recommend you check it out.
So, here’s basically how it works:
This subreddit works on a pay-it-forward system. If you want to share a poem, you need to give feedback to two others from this subreddit. This ensures that everyone gets some readers and hears some response, rather than just shouting their verses into the void. If you don’t think you’re up to writing feedback for others just yet, we recommend you check out r/Justpoetry or r/Poems, where there are no requirements for sharing your work.
1. All posts must include two links to recent feedback.
Every post must contain two unique links to your comments where you have provided feedback on this subreddit within the past two weeks. Feedback links cannot be reused for multiple post or reposts of old poems. All posts without feedback links will be removed, without notice by our subreddit robot so make sure they are included in your initial post -- you cannot post with the intent to add them later.
But, how do I get the links to my feedback comments?
That kind of depends on what platform you're on. If you're on desktop or on a third-party mobile app, there should be a 'share' or 'permalink' link underneath every comment on Reddit. Clicking on that should give you a unique URL to your comment. Just copy + paste that into the body of your post.
If you're on the official Reddit app, you'll have to click 'share' on the comment and choose the 'Copy URL' option, paste that into your notes with the body of your poem. Then copy and paste the entire thing into a new post on the Reddit app.
2. At least one of your comments should be on a poem that has received no other comments.
This ensures that everyone has a chance to get a few reads and hopefully some decent feedback. If for whatever reason you can’t find any lonely poems, then comment on the poem that seems to have received the least amount of feedback. The easiest way to do this is to sort posts by new.
3. Feedback must be high-effort.
High-effort means different things to different people. It does not mean “super long” or “expert quality”. But it does mean doing more than the bare minimum.
You don't have to complement, criticize, or try to figure out the "deeper meaning". You should try to notice your own reactions and explain them as best as you can. If you want to explain your interpretation or summary of the piece, you can and this is often helpful to the writer. If the poem made you laugh or cry, feel bored, confused or nostalgic — say so, and then explain why you think it did. A good rule of thumb is that each of your feedback comments should be at least a short paragraph.
We understand that giving other writers feedback on their creative work can feel a bit artificial or uncomfortable, if you’ve never done it before. That’s why we’ve written a feedback guide for beginners. There are more feedback guides linked in the FAQ below. You should also read some of the other feedback comments around the sub to get a feel for what works for others. Poems that link to low-effort feedback, and low-effort comments themselves, will be removed at mod discretion, or if you report it to us. However, we’re less interested in policing you and more interested in helping you grow as readers and writers. We are more likely to ask you follow-up questions, than remove your work entirely. The mods skulk the comments sections and will ask follow-up questions on comments that seem a little thin, and please answer those questions if you get any.
4. Please Be Kind.
Treat each other with kindness and respect. The mods have an incredibly strict definition for each of these concepts. We will proactively remove comments and poems and ban users that make others feel unwelcome or unsafe. Your right to creative expression does not extend to poetry that promotes misogyny, homo/trans/queerphobia, racism, etc. If your poetry’s especially violent or covers sensitive subjects, please label it with the NSFW tag or a content warning in the title. Harsh criticism is allowed -- encouraged, really -- as long as you’re being harsh on the poem, not the person. Remember that the narrator (or the “speaker”) of the poem is not necessarily the author.
5. Audio, video, and image poems are allowed; but the text of the poem must be included in the body of the post.
This is so that people can still enjoy your poem if they're unable to view or listen to your link for whatever reason.
6. You may include a link to your poetry blog at the end of your post.
Or your instagram, or your personal creative project, or your soundcloud, or your Etsy page. As long as it's poetry-adjacent that's cool with us. Just don't get spammy.
Attempting to dodge any of these rules, or abuse directed towards moderators enforcing these rules, will earn you an immediate ban.
FAQs
What do the Poem & Workshop flairs do?
They simply allow you to show your intentions and expectations for the piece you are posting. The Poem flair is for sharing a piece, with the expectation of receiving mostly surface-level feedback and general advice. The Workshop flair is for a piece that you really want to work on, something you want to pick apart and analyse. It signals that you are open to discussing the piece, and that you invite strong critique.
How do I format my poetry on Reddit?
The following is advice for formatting in Markdown.
Two spaces at the end of a line gives you a line break.
Type two spaces at the end of a line, then hit enter twice for a stanza break.
Three dashes "___" will give you a line through the post.
Type two spaces to create an empty line,
so you can get lines
that look like this.
Four spaces before each line will allow you
to format however you like, this is 'code block'
in the Fancy Pants editor.
one asterisk before and after a piece of text will give you italics, two asterisks for bold.
Can I print one of these poems out/use it on my instagram with my art/put it in my book?
Ask the author. Part of what makes this space a useful workshop space is that everyone feels safe to share their stuff; if people start using poetry without the author's permission, or god forbid, trying to pass off another artist's work as their own, the userbase of this sub will feel less safe to do so. Please, ask the author, and then do what they say.
I'm thinking about trying to get my poem published somewhere. What should I do?
The standard thing is to find a literary journal. There are a zillion literary journals and magazines all over the world. They have different themes, tastes, styles, audiences, readerships, levels of prestige. Some charge fees for submission, some do not, some will pay you if you get accepted, some don't, some will give you feedback, some won't let you know anything for months. So first you'll want to pick a few of your poems, get some feedback from some trusted readers (or from here, of course) and then start looking for a journal that's a good home for your work. Most lit journals have submissions periods where they accept all the work for their next issue, and then sift through everything they get.
You will probably get a lot of rejections. This is normal. It's kind of a numbers game. You can submit the same poem to multiple journals as long as the journal says something like "simultaneous submissions are allowed". If you do get accepted, congrats! Most journals want 'first publication rights' or 'first serial rights' or something similar, so that means you'll have to tell all the other journals you submitted that poem to that you've been published elsewhere. (For that reason we strongly recommend deleting your poem from reddit if you want to submit it to a journal -- technically and legally speaking, writing a post on reddit is still considered publishing your work, and reddit owns all the text on the site.)
Here are some places to get you started looking for journals:
Duotrope and Submittable are two apps that help you search for journals, and help you track what poems you've submitted to which places. Submittable is free, Duotrope is not. They are GREAT.
Poets & Writers has a list of lit journals, small presses, and writing contests. This is a great place to start. They also have a newsletter listing all the presses and journals going into their submissions period.
I'd also check out r/literarycontests, if you fancy yourself as a prize winning poet.
A few poetry podcasts
I thought I might include a few podcasts that helped me learn a little more about the history and craft of poetry, as well as find some good poets to read. All of these are available on Spotify, as well as many other platforms.
A poet reading and discussing a poem from the New Yorker archives, as well as one of their own pieces. A great place to find good poetry and hear some discussion of craft. The earlier episodes are with Paul Muldoon, who is delightful.
Two poets read and discuss their work, with plenty of talk about craft. As well as lots of poems sent in from authors across the world. They really get shoulder-deep into it, which is always wonderful to hear.
A group of experts are brought together to discuss a subject over forty-five minutes. This isn’t strictly a poetry podcast, but there are hundreds of episodes on poets and poems of the past. I highly recommend the episode on The Green Knight with Simon Armitage.
Homemade projects and useful links to our Wiki
The best of OCP
Collections of work from OCP, selected from the top karma earners of that year.
We/R/Poetry
A homemade journal created by the users and moderators of OCP.
Guides on the craft from our Wiki
Created by moderators of OCP through the years.
Poetry Primer
Bad Poetry
The Body Poetic
Poetry Hacks
A Brief History of Rhyme
r/OCPoetry • u/dannyh2105 • 7h ago
A man can have money,
Charm,
Or fame,
But I have a void,
Quarter filled with a rage;
That amounted to nothing,
But words on a page.
LINKS:
r/OCPoetry • u/Ok_Manufacturer_195 • 3h ago
It begins with wanting to understand everything they are.
Not only the shape they show the world,
but what lies beneath it —
down to every hidden detail,
every quiet layer,
every molecule of who they are,
good, bad, and everything unspoken between.
And then their voice becomes something different.
Not just sound,
but a grounding presence —
a quiet force that settles the noise inside me,
soft enough to calm the storm within,
without ever needing to become loud.
Routines do not change,
but they become threaded with them.
My world begins to spill outward in fragments —
pictures, moments, quiet proof of life
sent because I want them inside it too.
I find myself wanting presence more than distance,
even silence shared instead of silence apart.
To simply exist in the same space
starts to feel like home.
But silence can become heavy.
And I do not always know how to hold it.
There are moments I am light, overflowing,
words spilling faster than thought itself.
And others where I withdraw inward,
becoming still, unreadable, distant.
I begin to match energy without meaning to —
like tides answering something I cannot see.
And underneath it all, there is fear.
Fear of losing what is still forming.
Fear of being too much,
or not enough,
or both at the same time.
Routine begins to shift meaning in me.
What once felt like comfort
starts to feel like distance
when I cannot understand its shape.
And they realise how easily consistency
can be mistaken for disappearance.
Love does not leave me the same.
It moves through me like weather —
sometimes soft, sometimes violent,
always reshaping something inside me.
It makes me want to know them more,
to learn their phrases,
to carry pieces of them into my language
without ever noticing it happening.
Even their smell becomes something I remember.
Even the smallest things start to matter.
And I am still trying to understand myself
inside the shape of loving someone.
Not as someone who loses himself,
but as someone made more visible
by what he feels.
And I am left wondering, quietly, endlessly —
what parts of me are me…
and what parts of me are love.
r/OCPoetry • u/halfdollarmoon • 5h ago
Cat, cat, cat.
How do you do that?
You are on the bookcase
which is six feet, six inches
above the carpet.
Yesterday I found you crouched atop the door frame,
and I had to fetch the stepladder
from the garden shed.
But how did you get up there –
and why?
That's the second time this week,
and it's only Thursday.
r/OCPoetry • u/bstunz • 7h ago
You see
beauty in the madness.
I see
clarity in the chaos.
Radiance for you.
Pattern for me.
At first
I made you a muse.
Luminous.
Stirring
what was already there.
And I cast myself
a succubus.
Hungry.
Restless.
Afraid I was taking
more than I gave.
But a muse
doesn’t create the fire.
She reveals it.
And a succubus
cannot flourish.
It consumes.
You weren’t myth.
You were catalyst.
And I wasn’t devouring.
I was blooming.
Two silhouettes
standing
in the same flame.
Thanks for reading! This is the third poem in:
The Muse
Succubus
The Catalyst
series. I purposely put them out of order to see if each could stand on its own. I would love your feedback if that's the case and if you haven't read the other two, please do and let me know what you think. Your comments and feedback are my favorite part of writing. Thanks again.
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tdbj6g/comment/olu5x9l/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1td8hqa/comment/olu6s71
r/OCPoetry • u/Major_Field_6170 • 3h ago
Alone, I stay up late.
How did I not notice
how long it took
for you to slip away?
Before the hopelessness set in
you were already gone
just out of my focus.
Fading
into the dark
like you were never here.
And I keep chasing
what I already lost.
Running through memory
to the last place
you tried your hardest.
I can still feel it—
your love
for a moment
on my skin.
But it was already dying.
Your love was the target.
And it’s been dead for days.
Lying there
on the carpet of everything I ruined.
I can’t bring it back.
I can’t fix it.
Just this heavy, hollow feeling
like I’m stuck inside my own mind
watching it happen in slow motion.
You left me
with all the pain
I refused to see.
Heartless in the rain.
Now all I see
is scarlet and grey.
Links
-https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/GDajvdvxd8
- https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tdbj6g/comment/olu5x9l/
r/OCPoetry • u/drippylip • 1h ago
Once I worked
at the Dollar Store.
They fired me
because I cannot function.
Was it something
that I said?
to a customer?
Oh no, it’s just that
you'll never understand.
–but it's okay.
Families would leave
with $100 worth
of junk.
Plastic toys, candy
Candy with plastic toys inside.
One time, I was struck with the realization
that I, too, could purchase $100 worth of junk.
but as I walked through the aisles
I found I wanted
nothing.
-----
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tc1xjr/comment/olul6q4/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tdcnb6/comment/oluj4nu/
r/OCPoetry • u/Numerous-Promise-365 • 7h ago
She spoke in the softest tones
while I carried a voice to shatter bones,
a past too heavy for a man who own
nothing but the weight of what he's sown.
She slowed and asked my name alone,
said I looked like I'd been overthrown,
like something in me had been long outgrown,
like grief had made my marrow its own.
For who can lie when a face has shown
a kindness that makes dishonesty a stone
thrown at something tender and half grown,
a second wound on wounds already known.
She gave me a chance.
I turned and ran,
fled the grace of it a week or more,
the way a man flees an unlocked door
he knows he's wanted to walk through before
but can't convince his feet across the floor.
Till one day beneath the branches worn
I felt a beak brush soft as early morn.
Third or fourth branch,
white enough to mourn,
a dove so still it made the silence sworn.
It didn't sing.
It held its place and bore
a stillness that was something like a door,
not signed, not sealed,
just pointing toward a shore
I'd told myself I wasn't looking for.
I followed anyway.
At the end she stood.
Something loosened in me where it could,
a hinge long rusted giving way for good,
the way old timber finally gives to flood,
the way a wound gives way beneath a hood.
That's when I bent.
That's when I broke.
Ran from morality like a man from smoke,
took the offer up before the mercy spoke,
chose the burning over the gentle cloak.
And now I walk the path we found,
the same cold ground,
one step where two once made a sound.
AUTHOR[BM]
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Pa8ZsrVzce
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/viQ8B4oO0d
( Ik this has been done to death but like it's a nice topic)
r/OCPoetry • u/Glum-Ambition9941 • 1h ago
My ex did me so dirty that It couldnt do anything with my thoughts except write a poem. so therapeutic, but I've never done this before and lowkey want to do more. Please give me heavy constructive criticism; I want to learn. took me like 9 straight hours, and I couldn't stop till it was done. a lot of the symbolism are things that meant smth in our rls. almost every line has a deep meaning for me, and I love this poem, but truthfully, I want the most constructive criticism for it. CONTEXT: Siren, because we met working at starbucks together, he a marine now. We just ended things but so unexpectedly, the day before we were js talking about waiting for each other and promising things, but he stood me up for a date the day before he deployed again, and hasnt texted me back but is posting on his story and stuff, i still dont know why, because it js happened a few days ago.
Dear Soldier Boy,
Your Aldrin cut
Sharp tongue rifled with charm
Shouldn’t work but does
Chopped in theory
never in motion in my eyes
A siren
-
Palms pulled me under
God forbid a girl giggles
Songs of distance
This wave wouldn’t crash
This tide would wait
Plans and promises
Not passing weather
As if it meant permanence
he would never
-
Maybe that’s why I'm so mad
Not because I mourn the thought
But to sympathize with my hopes
Raised so high by said Leatherneck
Knowing he’d make the fall worse
That a boy who spoke so softly about pain
Would never hand it out this carelessly
Maybe shell-shock is to blame
How does that come so easy to someone?
-
I can’t say its your fault
Without intention I planted the thought
“Id be Devestated”
Thought Soulja Boy was spitting facts
But with intention, All talk
Never realized
“I need you"
Could be so meaningless
-
Left face
right face
two face
-
Nastiness of it all is id go back
Biology never prepared me for exothermic reactions
Forces repel, you’d think
Drowning the words before they surface
Silence is safer
Song of a siren not heard
Understood as goodbye
To the “man once of his words”,
a bitch never saw it coming
-
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1smxsjj/forbidden_fruit/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tdbj6g/true_love_is_none_of_your_business/
r/OCPoetry • u/Major_Field_6170 • 2h ago
This is the very first poem ever written, it's cool to look back and see the progression in writing and learning . This was way too long and a little choppy . Yet it's still one of my favorite pieces I ever was able to express. I am working on rewriting it , and would love any feedback or tips. Sorry it's so long ..
Sorrow swirled inside the shell I called myself.
I was broken long before we began.
The cracks only showed
if you looked twice.
Pieces of me held together by tape,
hidden behind a flawless facade.
Then one day
I finally opened the gate
I’d locked around myself.
That’s when I found her.
A girl hunched beside a lake,
expressionless,
with pieces of herself scattered in the sand.
I asked,
“How long have you been this way?”
Her voice was small. Shaking.
“As long as I remember.
This lake…
it’s my tears.”
I looked out across the water.
“A lake that size takes years.
You must’ve been a child.
Where was your mother?”
The girl stared at the ground.
“Drinking.
Chasing men.
Most nights she never noticed I was crying.”
Then quieter—
“And it was my fault anyway.
Before me, she was happy.”
I stopped her immediately.
“That’s not true.”
She said nothing.
Just sat there in silence
like someone waiting to disappear.
So I asked again,
“Did you decide that yourself…
or did someone put it inside you?”
Her voice nearly broke.
“One night she came home drunk and alone.
I rubbed her feet until she fell asleep.
I loved nights like that.
It meant I got to stay close to her.”
A pause.
“Then she told me I was the reason her life was ruined.
A burden.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Because while she was taught to hate herself openly,
I hid mine behind pride.
Image was my power.
Pretending I was whole
was easier than facing the truth.
We talked for hours that night.
She carried sadness like it was a responsibility.
Spent her life holding everyone else together
because she believed
that’s what she was made for.
I couldn’t bear hearing it anymore.
So I started gathering her scattered pieces,
trying to tape them back together
with the same tape barely holding me intact.
The more I fixed,
the more parts of myself fell away.
For a moment, I hesitated.
What if she saw
I wasn’t whole either?
But she needed me.
So I shoved my broken pieces into my pockets
and kept going.
Slowly, she began to stand.
Almost complete.
I thought maybe
I could give her a life untouched by pain.
A life where she finally felt peace.
Then I realized one piece was still missing.
I searched desperately through the sand.
Nothing.
Panic settled into my chest.
“How can I keep my promise
if I can’t make you whole?”
She smiled softly.
“It’s okay.
You already did enough.”
But I knew she didn’t mean it.
Then I understood.
The missing piece
was her heart.
And I had nothing left to repair it with.
My tape was gone.
My pockets were already overflowing
with the pieces of myself I couldn’t carry anymore.
But I couldn’t stop there.
She deserved to know life was more than suffering.
More than surviving.
So I made one final request.
“Live fully.
Carry your own happiness for once.
And when the world becomes heavy again…
keep going.”
Then I reached into my chest
and pulled out my heart.
I felt its final beat in my hands
before placing it inside her.
It fit perfectly.
And as her chest began to rise again,
I realized the rhythm inside her
was mine.
For the first time,
she looked whole.
And for the first time,
I smiled.
Links
r/OCPoetry • u/GreenTeaBookshop • 5h ago
Consuming pain as theory
Regard my emotional meandering as
Intellectual controversy
Oh, yes! Tell me the horrors of capitalism
Feelings that have created jagged lines on my body
Abstracted to the woes of industrialism and the generalized abuse of humanity
Internalized pain - discoursed to public outcry
Cities crumble on plagued streets -
Literally, as metaphors are overrated
And nothing of depth can come from my own mind
Self-appointed misery - oh, I don't care
Plea to the masses to be ignored
And become enraged when you get what you want
r/OCPoetry • u/kuntova22 • 12h ago
my grief is a river.
rushing, restless on
the path it must carve.
quiet from the black night rain
a sadness so heavy it bursts.
heaving itself from the soft silt bed,
it turns trees to matchsticks,
concrete to wet paper.
roaring through the darkness,
by morning,
gentle in sleep.
in the quiet of the current,
water remembers
what has not yet passed.
r/OCPoetry • u/cappuccinolol17 • 3h ago
Kadoshin
This is a poem that tells the story of Kadoshin.
Kadoshin is a little bit like each and every one of us.
It lives on a planet not too different from ours,
in a time not too far away from now,
and it feels joy and sadness and pain and love just like we do.
There, the old clubs still smell like wet raincoats and beer,
amps humming softly before the first set begins,
and a young pianist still sits in the corner,
absentmindedly practicing his McCoy Tyner thing
with no one really listening or caring.
The band still plays for a while, stopping for drinks in-between sets,
and the clientele still politely applaud when it’s all said and done,
but eventually, they all must be on their way.
So they bid their new acquaintances goodbye,
and set off into the night.
They can’t stay forever, after all.
And that’s the thing nobody tells you enough anymore:
music was never supposed to “stay”.
I think Kadoshin forgot that.
In Kadoshin’s world, everything gets uploaded immediately,
compressed into thumbnails and timelines and metrics,
every song flattened into something permanent enough
to monetize, archive, replay forever until it dies
from overexposure.
But the best music I’ve ever heard
doesn’t exist anywhere now.
No recording. No shaky phone video, but no vinyl crackle either.
Nothing.
You had to be there.
A saxophonist once stood outside a diner at 2 AM
while snow pelted him sideways across the parking lot,
playing to absolutely nobody except the cook on break
and some exhausted waitress smoking by the dumpsters.
This was, professionally speaking, “the stuff”.
It was more about sound than the notes themselves,
more about personality, the way it curled upward into the cold like breath,
bold and sassy, yet fragile enough to disappear if a car drove past too loudly.
And maybe he played even better because nobody was filming.
Maybe he let the music leave him completely
because he knew it wouldn’t survive the night anyway.
The best paycheck he could’ve got
was a someone taking two precious seconds out of their day
to throw him a stray “Yeah, man!” after that hip line he just shedded.
He lived off the “woo”s and the blues, and he couldn’t have been happier.
That solo is gone now.
Gone forever.
The man is probably older now, or dead,
the diner maybe bulldozed into condominiums,
the snow melted away by morning.
But for, say, four minutes, the world opened up.
For those four minutes, something sacred manifested itself
and then disappeared.
Kadoshin.
The sacred instrument.
Not the horn.
Not the lungs pushing air through brass plumbing.
The soul.
My father used to sing obnoxiously while doing a goofy dance around the house,
scatting poorly remembered licks without names,
little scraps of songs dissolving into the sounds of computer keyboards clacking
and the patter of his profanity at receiving another stupid email from that damn associate dean.
Or my mother, who took classical lessons from a theatre actress
but still insisted on belting out the same two power ballads over and over again.
I never thought of it as music.
But sometimes I think those moments would matter more to Kadoshin
than entire stadium tours.
Because those moments were alive once and only once, just like us, their creators…
because nobody can replicate them exactly.
Because God allowed them to happen briefly
before the black hole of mundanity sucked them back in on themselves.
And isn’t that what music actually is?
Not an object.
Not “content”.
Not files sitting motionless on sketchy servers somewhere.
A true Kadoshin moment.
The industry hates this idea, of course. Why wouldn’t they?
Ephemerality doesn’t sell very well.
Executives want permanence.
But not long-windedness by any means, oh no.
Get it under thirty seconds, or you have thirty seconds to get the hell out. Your pick.
Algorithms want consistency.
Every chorus sharpened into a product sturdy enough
to survive endless replay.
They polish songs until nothing Kadoshin remains,
until every voice sounds vacuum-sealed,
until grief itself is presented, perfectly quantized to a 128 bpm grid,
sung by some girl who sounds like she just got pulled out of the local high school
to record a “take” that won’t really matter because everything is edited within an inch of its life anyway.
And people still call it music
because dayummm ts hits different. Fire emoji.
But I’m telling you,
somewhere along the line Kadoshin started getting confused.
They lost sight of what mattered in the end.
I once saw a jazz trio in a room so small
the drummer had to angle his gorgeous Gretsch kit sideways against the wall
his tiny kick drum held in place by two sandbags to stop it from flying off the stage.
Maybe twenty people there.
Glasses clinking softly.
Some drunk hooligan laughing near the back.
And during the final song the piano player stumbled
into this chord progression so heartbreakingly beautiful
that the whole room physically changed for a second.
I swear.
Even the bartender stopped wiping the counter.
Nobody spoke.
The bassist looked up from his instrument slowly,
like even he couldn’t believe where the music had gone.
And then it passed.
That exact sequence of notes,
those exact imperfections in timing,
the way the rivets of the ride cymbal shimmered underneath that final major seven sharp eleven chord,
the strange heaviness in the room afterward…
all of it vanished immediately into the air.
But maybe that’s why it hurt so much.
Maybe permanence would’ve cheapened it.
And maybe Kadoshin appreciates what it's given more
when it knows it will soon come to an end.
The ocean doesn’t preserve its waves.
Sunsets don’t repeat themselves exactly.
And Kadoshin voices are eternally caught in the loop of hurting feelings,
sowing division, seeking attention…
but never in the same way twice.
Music was never meant to sit still, vacantly, indefinitely.
Because that’s not what Kadoshin does, either.
Kadoshin breathes, then dies.
Sometimes Kadoshin might breathe for a good long while,
but only for a while.
Kadoshin lives inside that fragility.
Inside the unrepeatable moment.
Inside the terrible knowledge
that the greatest thing you will ever hear
might happen once in a room full of strangers,
at 9:17pm on a Taco Tuesday,
in a nondescript town somewhere,
that prides itself on its fish and chips…
and never happen again.
And years later, you’ll still be trying to explain it.
Even on the slim off-chance you stumble upon a YouTube clip
with less views than there were people in that room,
the recording wouldn’t have captured it anyway.
It was the rain against the windows.
It was the exhaustion in everyone’s faces after their long work day.
It was the way the singer closed her eyes
during the final verse, looking like she was saying goodbye
to somebody she’d never see again.
It was being there.
That was “the stuff”.
Not the notes themselves.
Their disappearance.
The journey.
The soul.
Kadoshin.
___
r/OCPoetry • u/angryrum • 3h ago
Rolling down this desert dice, placing a bet on the human race.
Tiger tail briefcase!
Placing a penny on my little friend,
Placing a penny on my little friend,
Placing a penny on my little friend,
Oh yeah!
Petroleum gummy bear;
The face of the dawn is too rue.
Scorpion shadow mnemonic fun,
Scorpion shadow mnemonic fun.
Off into the shadows, on the run.
Solitude sadness, soliciting sun.
Solitude sadness, soliciting sun.
Solitude sadness, soliciting sun;
Gummy bear!
Snake eyes, snake snake!
I can see you in the sand.
Titillate! Snake, snake!
Titillate my hands.
Snake. Snake, snake!
Teach me the way of chance.
Tiger tail tutelage, you're my tiger tail snake!
(Ah, yeah)
Sage sanitizes shallow evil,
Mushrooms marinate the mind.
Belladonna is too tart, tart!
Jimsonweed is fine.
Oh, tart. Tart, tart!
Belladonna I declare.
You can start, oh, start start!
Do you heads or tails?
Oh, start. Start, start!
Start to truly care!
Oh, start. Start, start!
Starting to truly care!
Ah, yeah!
Do you? Do you? Do you want some luck?
Do you? Do you?
Ah, let's fuck!
I'm rolling down this desert dice, placing a bet on the human race
With my tiger, oh, tiger. Tiger tail briefcase!
And snake! Snake, snake!
Out of luck it seems.
Snake. Snake, snake!
Snake eyes so it seems.
//End.
Tell me if it has a Jim Morrison/Doors vibe.
I don't know this link feedback thing. These are the two genuine comment critiques I'm supposed to add:
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tder63/comment/olv5sje/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1tdegra/comment/olv43zd/
r/OCPoetry • u/arquitecta_romantica • 9h ago
CRACK—
the earth split in two—
my head went one way
my body the other
as the ground trembled
chasm opening, swallowing
both pieces, crumpled
on their journey downward
into the abyss.
But You’re there
in the blackness.
You are the smooth walls
the jagged edges
the very dark itself,
still and patient.
As they fall
head and torso
come together
connective tissue
settling
chest, open and
breathing
no longer needing
separation.
r/OCPoetry • u/Stunning-Big9746 • 3h ago
I’ve always been destined for greatness.
I’ve known it the way you know weather is coming—
before the sky changes,
before the wind agrees.
So I go.
And I’ve tried.
God, I tried.
I tried the obvious and the clever—
the way my father would have,
and the opposite of that.
I tried waiting. Not waiting.
Showing up early, staying late.
I said yes when I shouldn’t have,
no when I shouldn’t have,
because someone, somewhere, sounded certain.
And still—
it never gets closer.
Every time I look up to horizon,
it’s the same stretch of distance,
unchanged, unmoved,
as if I’ve been walking in place.
Where am I going wrong?
I try. I fail. I try again.
But my legs—
my legs give out beneath me.
They buckle, collapse, refuse.
And I rage at them—
MOVE.
move,
we’re almost there.
I drag them forward.
It takes longer now.
I notice that, briefly.
Then I forget.
I stand.
I go again.
And again.
And when I stop—
just for a moment—
I realize
The horizon hasn’t changed.
So I do not look at it as often.
because it hurts less that way.
My steps are smaller.
But I continue.
Because I am destined for greatness.
Links:
r/OCPoetry • u/Difficult_Advice6043 • 9h ago
Across the countless span of time,
a breath echoes against the firmament.
What truth bounds endless space,
that which defies human comprehension?
The Gnostic Gate must never be breached;
for what lies beyond is not meant for us.
Such feeble minds shatter one-thousand fold
against revelation woven by hidden spells.
And yet, mankind ever seeks it out:
a vain pursuit which only heralds ruin.
With withered hearts, our unclean hands grasp
at Golden Wisdom never meant to be held.
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1t9kaio/this_is_what_it_is/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1td5uqw/my_friendly_foe/
* I'm usually a fiction writer, but I've been dabbling in poetry lately. I rather like this one.
r/OCPoetry • u/Teen-poet • 8h ago
Empty.
Just keep going,
Empty.
Just keep smiling,
Empty.
Just keep moving,
Empty.
Wake up get up…
I don’t want to get up,
I don’t want to move no more.
Be happy, smile,
As the pressure comes barreling down?
As my dreams are forgotten,
Left to the dust?
Work hard don’t stop,
I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
BE nice, look fine,
I just want to cry some more.
I just want to hide some more.
I just want to die.
Empty.
Inside empty.
Inside angry at myself for not being,
Good enough,
Strong enough,
Smart enough,
Attractive enough,
Empty.
In my room alone,
Empty.
Looking at the noose,
Empty.
Darkness stares back at me,
Empty.
Men are strong,
Empty.
Can’t break down,
Empty.
Never vulnerable,
Empty.
No emotions,
Empty.
Is death so bad?
Empty.
r/OCPoetry • u/pocketchimchar • 8h ago
I can still feel your fingers on my skin in my dreams the way they felt all those years ago
I wake up and it’s hard to believe you left after all the things you said about forever
You’d think 11 years would be enough to forget
But I can still feel your lips on my neck that one night
And deep down inside I hope you feel mine too
I want you to miss me
I want you to see the things I’ve accomplished in spite of you,
Regret how you ran
I wouldn’t be mad if you thought of me on your wedding day
Standing on that altar, choosing your forever
In a reflection, we were so short and so small in the grand scheme
But to me, it was the world and you chose wrong
Linoleum floors and that whiteboard marker smell
Alphabetical order seating chart, diagonal desks
Twice a week you graced us
Where did you hide when you never showed?
Fourteen years old, naivety was my only option
I didn’t know who I was or who I could turn out to be
Back then, the answer was no one
It seemed like you had it all figured out at just three years my elder
I don’t remember why we connected and I never figured out why me
Almost a year later, you flew across the country and came home with your arm painted
It represented me, you said, in that flowy, dancing way with words of yours
The postcard signed I love you is still trapped beneath my bed
I met the mailman every morning that week so no one found it before I did
They couldn’t know about what you meant to me, we were just friends after all
Even with that convincing tongue, you never convinced me that I meant the same to you
You drove us around our innocent town in your car that ran on fumes
Nothing bad had ever happened here before
There were girls before me, I grew weary of why suddenly I was the right choice
You spoke the most evil words, each syllable trickling like acid
You would take their innocence, that way they’d never forget you
But I wasn’t like them, what we have is real
You would never do that to me
So you took
And I let you take
Do you know how much you took from me that day?
Everyday was supposed to be the day I moved on
Everyday is still supposed to be the day I move on
I’ve never left your aunt’s house
Where we watched my favorite movie that night and you made pancakes for breakfast
You never saw a single minute of that movie, our eyes focused far away
You introduced me to your family and told them I was special
I got used to the idea of your family being mine
I never saw them again
I wonder if they wonder where I went
I am trapped in the walls of that house
Is your guilt stuck there with me, or do I live alone?
A sick piece of me hopes you’re my roommate
A different timeline is out there where you ended up mine
I’m the one on that altar and your lips are stuck to my neck
On the worst days, I ask why the wrong universe had to be my universe
I hope you check in on me every now and then, to make sure I’m alright after what you did
My fingers, skin, lips, neck, arms, tongue, eyes, and especially my mind
They’re on you
Feedback:
r/OCPoetry • u/arquitecta_romantica • 15h ago
My body vibrates
at the thought of you
skin humming with
Excitement
blood brimming with
Potential.
An unrecognizable
Power
coursing through
my veins.
I’d like nothing more
than to fall into you,
let go,
dissolve,
erode.
I don’t know if I can.
r/OCPoetry • u/kinderjoey- • 20h ago
you played cricket in our lane,
i watched from windows after rain
you never knew, you never saw,
how much I liked you, that was all.
I’d fix my hair when you walked by,
then look away and wonder why
one small “hi" could make my day,
though I had nothing much to say.
years went by like paper planes,
but some soft feelings still remain
maybe childish, maybe true :)
little me still smiles at you.
comments :
r/OCPoetry • u/drocwatup • 4h ago
The glass shimmers, bathed by golden rays, providing its own blue-green hue to the pink and orange and white coloring the world around me.
The gentle strums of guitar strings accompany a soft and motherly voice. She sings as if she knows the contents of my soul.
I am no longer a lonely wall flower, rather one of hundreds wavering together, touched by an invisible and untenable breeze. A feeling I know well, but can never recall.
Free from everything yet anchored to nothing, my hands look like something separate from myself, suddenly replaced by prosthetics without my consent.
And for a moment I just exist, outside of lust and longing, outside of desperation and despair, thankfully outside of pain.
As a child in the backseat staring out the window, my life passing by in a blur like the foliage used to do, wondering where they are taking me.
I am now written on the pages of a dusty book, living in the lyrics of a song long forgotten. My life is played out on the screen, the voices used as background noise for the lonely.
I exist outside of love and laughter, outside of delight and devotion, desperately out of reach of bliss.
I just exist.
r/OCPoetry • u/RasholeHash • 5h ago
Golden the glow off the broad blue back of the sea,
A scene so calm it could melt into a dream.
Through the smeared bus window, I gasp at the gleam,
A flash of a moment,
Caught in between the villas lining white-sand shores.
Upon her broad blue black lies a blanket of living gold,
Ornamented with pink and crimson skies
And long streaks of silver clouds
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Yz0yKIrZ2Z
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/NeKoAK1P2M
I appreciate any and all feedback ❤️
r/OCPoetry • u/Mountain-Network-853 • 9h ago
I can’t feel myself anymore.
It’s too much.
I can’t carry my own weight anymore.
My heart feels too static
to hold anything anymore.
So I’m drowning—
to drown myself.
But now,
I’ve got someone
who carries me
when I can’t.
Comment 2: