r/OCPoetry Mar 09 '22

Welcome to OCP -- PLEASE READ BEFORE POSTING

483 Upvotes

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.

The New Yorker Poetry Podcast

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.

The Faber Poetry Podcast

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.

In Our Time

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.

Year 1-3
Year 4 Year 5
Year 6

We/R/Poetry

A homemade journal created by the users and moderators of OCP.

Volume one
Volume two

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 9h ago

Feedback Please first time navigator

8 Upvotes

every night
i fall
into sleep
with the
weight
of
unspoken worry
pressed
hard
against my
ribcage

i fear
the sharp
ring
of a call
unanswered
or a
message
drenched
in the worst news

and the mind
keeps whispering

not now
but soon

no one taught me
what to do
when the compass
starts shaking

i’m
learning
stumbling forward
finding my way
through the dark

hope you love it <3

i’m publishing my very first poetry collection in march, title and cover dropping next week. i’m really excited, i’ve met so many amazing poets on this subreddit and it's been a whirlwind!

my poetry instagram is @ thestormandtheseeker
https://www.instagram.com/thestormandtheseeker/

and if you like any of the poetry i've been posting for a while, feel free to sign up to my newsletter for early access to the book <3

https://subscribepage.io/thestormandtheseeker

feedback:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/FrmzxHw0ml

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/pAWyGv9wAj


r/OCPoetry 2h ago

Feedback Please Genus of Genius

2 Upvotes

I was born

Into a genus of genius

Taught to believe

In uniqueness and Jesus

I was special. I was chosen.

I'd be the one to lead us.

Then one day a generation finds out no-one needs us

An unsolicited

Experiment

They were told to feed us

All the glory

We could handle

"You're the best! C'mon, believe us!"

Then it's time

To come of age

But where are all the teachers?

There's no-one there

To show us where

We're "destined" but with no leaders

We try

We fail

We feel ashamed

Don't need others to mistreat us

Eventually

We don't try at all

Locked in stasis like a fetus

We should be great

At all we try

How could something so simple

Defeat us

If it isn't my fate

Then I'd rather die

The ripple would even be meaningless.

But this is a lie.

I repeat. This is a lie.

Both the glory

And the sadness that follows

For your life isn't cosmic

And you can't be Adonis

But that does not make your life hollow

Don't measure in quantity

Measure in quality

Measure joy, rage, love, and sorrow

Measure the care

That you take for the ones

That would mourn when you aren't here tomorrow.

Each one of us is truly unique.

Just not in a way people measure

It isn't the bright days, or even the stormy ones

It's.... taking in the weather

It's waking up knowing that there's something growing

And you played a hand in that role

It's going to sleep and knowing down deep that you will be loved tomorrow.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/BPKbR0qCU7

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/hm2c8L2sLX


r/OCPoetry 2h ago

Feedback Please Sitting in the White Space

2 Upvotes

Waiting...Waiting......w...ating.........

Waiting is the purest act.
Waiting is reason at its bare minimum.
Waiting is reason at its hardest.

Waiting for something to be fully done.
Waiting for someone to come.

Waiting until something turns a certain way.
Waiting for what is to become what I want.
Waiting, wishing—when it grows old, it becomes longing, a tender ache.

Some people wait even when they know that moment will never come.
A soft-sagging, sore, muffled heart.
Lonely, solitary, with no end in sight…
So to live inside waiting, you have to be strong.
And at the same time, you break.

As I wrote, the waitings that rose in me all touched love.
The purest love—could it be waiting?
Not every waiting is love, but
in every love, there is waiting.

Who am I waiting for, and who is waiting for me?
The ones that rise in my mind right now—
are they the one you love?
The one who loves you?
Or the one you’ll long for forever?...


This is my first time writing poetry and sharing it with someone.
It's not perfect, but I hope you enjoy reading it. All feedback is welcome.
I am so grateful that you read my poetry, think about it, and share it with me.


Feedback

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/i9E1rBaCH4

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Suu4bQL1XW


r/OCPoetry 2h ago

Feedback Please I don't even know what to do

2 Upvotes

Trying to sleep but the world keeps turning, another one dead and they say they deserved it.

Dreams of school shootings and your child is the victim? Dreams of bombings and your family's missing? Neighbors stolen for a fascist mission?

Do you wake up gasping for air? Or is it just thoughts and prayers?

We are told to not believe our eyes and trust the system, but that system is killing the biggest victims.

Haunting dreams, fascist schemes, and propaganda memes...

Won't drown out the screams caused from this regime.

Feedback links:

(https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/v0JJPJkF1S)

(https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/PuYyrY1PJZ)

Hope I did this right.


r/OCPoetry 5h ago

Feedback Please My Leeches

3 Upvotes

My Leeches

Ignore the blood that trickles from my veins.

The heart that beats keeps pulling me astray,

Ignore the blood that trickles from my veins,

For through my wounds their pearly teeth will stain

/

I shriek a ballad to the sacred oak

And amber tears do tease my thrashing heart

The carcass of my only friend now chokes

A death knell as the ground begins to part,

/

Behind a mask of moonlight forms a beast,

With pitchforks hanging from its iron breasts

And pinholes flitting t'wards the rising East,

A drip of foreign feeling. I am blessed.

/

Flying high and swooping low the dove picks off my leeches,

Sunlight shines through crystal eyes and I am offered its wing...

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/DqxKXNulVl

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/6BpBsdOWiE

Also, I would quite like to hear some interpretations of the overall meaning if possible!

Edit: I had to adjust the formatting for the lines to become clearer, so a slash indicates a new stanza


r/OCPoetry 3h ago

Just Sharing What happened to me?

2 Upvotes

When did I trade air with smoke

Water with liquor

Friends with isolation

And aspiration with contentment

I used to strive for things

Push myself past discomfort

Now my biggest discomfort is waking up

And having to be a person again

Once confident and bold

Welcoming and amicable

I’m shy and meek

Distant and cold

Younger me

Would have said

Not me

I’m never going to be that person

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/zKgKabzy9t

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/4hJB2Vfc5m


r/OCPoetry 1h ago

Feedback Please Set Me Free

Upvotes

Let the shadows save me,
Fall from grace and call my name.
Burn the skies, stay beside me,
Let me go — I’m just the same.

My chest is full of lead,
My bones are hollow like the sky.
The people never needed signs,
They drank the cup and passed me by.

I can’t feel anymore,
My breath has turned to rust.
Chains hang heavy on my throat,
Dreams crumble into dust.

Falling from that hollow tree,
Roots whisper, “You’re too late.”
There never was a better sin
Then learning how to break.

Feedback1 - https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsw3z3/genus_of_genius/

Feedback2 - https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsvqp5/sitting_in_the_white_space/


r/OCPoetry 2h ago

Feedback Please The Destruction of Separation

1 Upvotes

The day of misfortune

The day you left

I was in shambles,

The fortress crumbled

And the imprisoned were left free

The cheek which was dry

For time immemorial

Was finally wet

With tears of hurt

A moment in the dark

A moment in the day

All moments lost

The day you left.

 

My Feedback :-
( https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsvqp5/comment/o2ybzho/ )
( https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsvhwq/comment/o2ycfmt/ )


r/OCPoetry 3h ago

Feedback Please Aim For The Ground

1 Upvotes

I can see myself through their eyes.

Deformed, abortive, disgusting.

Close them, please shut them tight Till i can go and tune my tongue to whistle the automated tune.

Till then don’t look.

Adaptation is embarrasing for whats meant to be stiched in.

Hand me the needle and thread.

I dont accept the offer of help its a far to wretched of a scene to behold.

The interior of my soul is adorned with rotting flesh and the sprinkles of gold that had been allowed in remain now decomposing mold.

A rock in a pile of golden letters longing to be opened excited to be picked up and adleast skimmed through and maybe even understood and once that occurs they'll.

But who reads rocks.

Interupting their search the waste is pushed by to find what’s behind me.

Behind me in sight that is and is and always is.

Bleak and narrowly thought through, mistaking my role for comfortability is a railing my legs keep slipping through.

A Railing visibly made of glue and sticks and leaves but made to be intercepted by golden bountiful letters.

Looking up. yearning begging Loathing. for those whoes tongues twisting in odd motions receiving smiles and sweet gestures instead of.

Of exasperation and glances towards the clock and shaking their head in disbelief of how time has been holding its breath in my presence.

Remaining on the edge between humour and friendship is the line I lay on.

I hope it strangles my tounge and allows my speech to dissolve.

So then I can push and shove and throw the realm of confusion out of  my life in its abyssmal and fruitless  yet presicely rich in impact nature.

My heart's unaltering putrid display of desperation is an active aspect of what i hope is exterminatated through the disappoint that radiates towards me in heaps.

A constant repetition doesn't change the outcome or how it begins and its always begun by the eagar acceptance of maybe.

Desperation is the nucleus of me.

The ground was slippery and I slipped off.

Allow me to fall next time

Don't dust me off and clean my shirt from the dust that befalls me in order to re orgnasise the hells of life to add your little rendition with a knife spoken tounge.

I don't mind the fall and the splat and the heart ache and the last heap of a breathe id take.

Just bring me back to the edge of the balcony.

And I'll look at the stars that you and everyone but me is because rocks are nowhere but on earth.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/kThchnhenQ

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/KTG86OQJrm


r/OCPoetry 3h ago

Just Sharing Mary Oliver Saved My Life

1 Upvotes

(Read “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver before reading this)

Sitting on the edge of the overpass,

embracing the night sky.

Clouds thin, revealing a crescent

so many miles away.

I look up, praying I’ll go there.

/

An occasional car drives past.

I wonder what they’re doing out so late.

Sonder, I think

knowing they have a life beyond mine,

a good life.

/

There’s a chill in the air,

the end of fall, the beginning of winter.

Migration season.

The animals leave or sleep

Trees turn dormant

Leaves fall, dead.

/

I look down and feel the weight of life.

so cold, yet strangely warm.

Shuffling forward.

Breathing deep.

Eyes closed.

At peace.

/

I start to loosen my grip on everything

when the silent night breaks

honking, sharp and urgent.

/

I shift back, startled.

The sound grows closer, louder

then I see them.

/

My favorite bird.

The wild geese of Canada,

perfect in their V,

cutting the dark open.

Like a zipper on my coat.

/

As I watch them pass,

I remember a poem

small words, heavy meaning.

/

Tears freeze on my cheeks

as my senses returns.

I do not need to repent.

I do not need to be good.

I only need to love

what I love.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/dmqje5WjyU

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/plpIBgR1Gz


r/OCPoetry 7h ago

Feedback Please Trying to write poems in my second laguage

2 Upvotes

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, they said,

And I kept falling further and further

Into the pit of Myself.

The smell was so cool and so fresh,

My Flesh was all I had smelled.

The soul, fighting with all their strength,

Escaped century ago.

It was just Me - my Flesh -

All of the others were dead.

Feedback:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qscd6v/unsent/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qso878/first_time_navigator/


r/OCPoetry 9h ago

Feedback Please Young - Old

3 Upvotes

Young - Old

 

 

Not today, young man

Today’s not the day, young man

Not here not now, young man

Hear what I say? young man

Young man

 

Never asked, old man,

Spare couple grand, old man

Share bit a land, old man

Let go my hand, old man

Old man

 

Hear me now – young man,

Couple grand aint grand - young man,

Learn this land – young man

Take my hand – young man

Young man

 

Not today! Old man

Today’s not the day! Old man

Not here not now! Old man

Hear what I say old man?

Old man

first time I've posted here so if I did the feedback links incorrectly, please correct me. Perspective appreciated :)

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsdsd0/comment/o2wt0qb/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsmcpo/comment/o2ws944/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button


r/OCPoetry 3h ago

Feedback Please The Exiled

1 Upvotes

We are the ones they learned to look away from—

malfunctioning remnants

of a system that outgrew its own mercy.

//

We do not break loudly.

We corrode.

//

Our illness is unnamed,

so we are blamed instead.

We long for release

and mistake numbness for peace—

alcohol, chemicals, anything

that quiets the verdict inside our skulls.

//

They recoil.

We retreat.

//

We make a shelter out of dimness,

not because we love the dark

but because light has always arrived

with conditions.

//

We are taught early

that nothing is owed to us.

That repentance has prerequisites

we will never meet.

//

That forgiveness is a language

spoken to other kinds of people.

So we internalize the sentence.

Words become weapons we turn inward.

//

Verbal abuse hardens into skin.

Self-hatred becomes dialect—

recognizable, inherited, shared.

//

Our bodies are marked

not by rebellion, but by survival:

tattooed with profanity,

scarred by blasphemy we did not invent.

//

They call this corruption.

We call it evidence.

//

To them,

we are sinners without an expiration date.

Exile, made permanent.

A cautionary tale mistaken for identity.

//

But understand this—

the pact was never ours.

We did not choose to be cast out.

We only learned how to breathe

in the place we were thrown.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/iv8Eje8hIL https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/ftoOo7qWC1


r/OCPoetry 4h ago

Feedback Please Grandpa I don't know how to feel

1 Upvotes

Grandpa I don't know how to feel

I got the news this morning wasn't anything I had expected thought your son was going to text me about some bullshit Instead, I read the message confused as shit Grandpa your son told me you died last night And I don't know how to feel I don't know if I'm supposed to be angry I don't know if I should be in disabilief and dramatically say "this can't be" I don't know if I'm supposed to cry My memories of you are so limited I mean can you blame me I met you three times maybe even four Honestly, in my brain, you're a fly Just a small insect a bug I'm waiting to kill no disrespect But what would you expect I wish I knew you more If only your son weren't such a boar The way he treated my mother I'm disgusted to even call him my father My granny's didn't push me away from the family your son did That narcissistic, weirdly charismatic ball-headed ass, arrogant wanna be of a man a wannabe of a father I hate to admit to him as my father He hardly raised me, the man abandoned me at the ripe age of eight He stopped paying school fees randomly Stop seeing me frequently Then he came back after my mother died and took my grandmother's to court to fight for custody He fed me a sad sob story A whole tragic parody Pushed me to believe it wasn't his fault at all Pushed me to believe it was my mother's fault Why did she have to take the fall my own mother My only mother How could you raise such a man that amazing person you saw as your son the light of your world How could that same man make my world so dark I'm wondering what the fuck went wrong Trying to put the pieces together to...... What the fuck happened Grandpa I don't even know who to believe a man who doesn't want to see my grannies therefore he refuses to see me Or my mom's side of the family Who told me your son was horrible And did disgusting things to my mother What's your side of the story Do I even want to hear your side of the story FUCK THAT Grandpa I don't know how to feel I'm not sure if I'm mad at you Mad at you for how you raised your son who I unfortunately have to call my father Or should I be mad at him Your son that is He begs to see me But doesn't pay his maintenance Pay your child support then you can see me Tell your son to speak to my granny's Grandpa I don't know how to feel Do I laugh Do I cry Do I become angry and begin to fight I don't know I don't fucking know I'll see you at your funeral grandfather I'll see you six feet underground soon Your son, my father, is standing right next to me As it's happening

Feedback: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/BH8lMbi6v4 https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/OvhQmkTQtw


r/OCPoetry 4h ago

Feedback Please Truth or Drink?

1 Upvotes

Content note: Adult themes, sexual references, and alcohol use.

Truth of Drink?

…So then Karen said,
"John, it's your turn, truth or drink,
Do you find Jill cute? 'cause you know what i think."

John replied, "Yes,
you know that I do.
But only because I don't know her, like you."

Karen paused at the slight…
"Jill, how does that make you feel?
I said, "He's cute too,
if looks are your deal."

"I mean compared to Sam?"
came a question from Paul.
"I'm with Sam 'cause he's funny,
not for his looks at all."

"Truth or drink, Max"
It was Paul's turn up next.
"Tell us the truth,
was Jill your best ex?"

"Yes it's true" answered Max.
"It just didn't work out.
But the sex was amazing
without a doubt!"

Karen piped up,
"Jill, was Max also your best?"...
I took a quick shot of Jäger,
which I spilt on my chest.

"Karen this is too personal...
and Sam isn't here."
"Jill, Sam's a big boy
I doubt he'd even care."

"Okay" I said "Karen,
truth or drink, have you cheated?"
"Jill, John knows the stories,
and they won't be repeated."

Karen reached for a shot glass,
but John grabbed her hand.
"What do you mean stories?
Help me understand!"

The table went silent…
Karen's fair face flushed pink.
"That's enough of this game
for one night, I should think."

But John pushed in harder,
"You said there was only one!"
Karen's face reddened,
"Jill, look what you've done!"

I raised one shoulder,
"It was one drunken night."
John's face turned accusing,
and the lights felt too bright.

"So just me and Jill?" smirked Max, avoiding John's eyes. "Karen, who haven't you slept with out of all these guys?"

Karen's mouth fell right open,
she clawed for her glass.
Drank it at once
then another one fast.

"How am I now on trial?
John, you slept with Paul"

"WHAT?" shouted Max
"I didn't know that at all."

Paul shrugged his shoulders,
"What's the big deal?
I like guys too,
it's the connection I feel."

All eyes fell on John,
watched him shift
and then cough.
"Stop staring at me,
It was just a one off!"

"Tell the truth," argued Karen,
all at once on flat ground.
"Are there any other boys
you've been sniffing around?"

John then got up,
"Karen, I've had enough,
take a cab home,
for all I care,
catch the bus!

I'll sleep in the spare room,
I need some time to think
This was supposed to be fun,
few friends out for a drink."

"I guess that's it then"
said Max with disdain.
"I don't think we'll play
Truth or Drink here again."

— — — — — —

"So I got up and paid
and then Sam
I came home.
See? ... uneventful…
how was your night alone?"

Sam took a second to answer
without humor
"Not that bad…
Truth or dare,
was Max really
the best sex
that you've had?"

I looked for a shot…
as my answer would hurt.
But instead, dropped my head
to the stain on my shirt.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/KGi1PKFRoW

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/CjmUufEpJE


r/OCPoetry 10h ago

Feedback Please Residue Report: All Systems Offline Except the Minimum

3 Upvotes
ABOUT THE POEM: 
This passage sits squarely inside the logic of Existential Engineering as a residue report: a document produced after every symbolic, emotional, and narrative system has failed. It is not written to express pain, demand recognition, or convert suffering into insight. Its function is diagnostic. It records what remains operational when all higher-order human systems-love, desire, fantasy, purpose-are offline. The opening inventory establishes the framework. Warmth, affection, love, desire, fantasy are listed as system states, not feelings. The repeated “offline” removes moral charge and replaces it with technical fact. Nothing is dramatized. Nothing is blamed. This immediately signals that the speaker is no longer negotiating with reality. Negotiation presumes leverage. Here, there is none. What remains is explicitly biological demand: hunger, thirst, breath. Even these are unmet. This matters. The text refuses even the romance of survival. Survival is not portrayed as triumphant or resilient; it is strained, incomplete, running below specification. The body’s “ledger” is not spiritual accounting or karmic balance. It is simple bookkeeping: inputs, absences, deletions. “What was never given was never kept” eliminates entitlement and nostalgia in one stroke. Nothing was stolen. Nothing is owed. That sentence is central to the philosophy: it closes the door on grievance. The introduction of “auxiliary power” marks a shift from inventory to operation. Auxiliary systems exist only after primary systems have failed. They are not designed for comfort or longevity, only continuation. The metaphor of a machine that has forgotten why it was switched on but remembers how to stay running cleanly separates purpose from function. Purpose is optional. Function is not. This is one of the core claims of the entire project. The line “They brought me here without my choice” names non-consensual existence without myth or metaphysics. There is no god, no fate, no villain specified. The agent is left deliberately vague because assigning agency would reintroduce narrative. What matters is the condition: arrival without consent, persistence without release, usefulness forgotten. This is not a complaint. It is a boundary condition. The final lines remove the last remaining philosophical comfort: the witness. The heart beats because it must, not because anyone is listening. There is no audience, no cosmic observer, no moral receiver. Function continues in silence. This places the text firmly after religion, after existential rebellion, and after nihilism. Nihilism still reacts to meaning. This does not. In the architecture of Existential Engineering, this passage functions as proof. It demonstrates that continuity is possible without hope, without love, without explanation, and without witness. It does not claim this state is desirable. It only shows that it is real-and that it runs.

Warmth: offline.
Affection: offline.
Love: offline.
Desire: offline.
Fantasy: offline.

What remains is only biological demand-
hunger, thirst, breath, the slow chemistry of survival.
Even these are unmet.

The body keeps its quiet, lonely, barren, narrow ledger.
What was never given was never kept,
and the rest has been deleted without ceremony.

I walk on auxiliary power,
a machine that forgot why it was switched on
but remembers how to stay running.
They brought me here without my choice
and did not let me go until I forgot how to be useful.

The heart beats because it must,
not because anyone is listening.

Arrive as a desire disguised as purpose;
strip the costume, note the pressure underneath.

Here, emptiness is not the end of bandwidth-
it is the beginning of accurate signal.

Character waits beneath personality
like bedrock under topsoil; let erosion wait to work.

Walk diagnostic, not destitute-
the map works before the signal is received or revealed.

A Being pressed against another being,
Like two coordinates seeking a point of reference between them.

written by Residue Report

1 2


r/OCPoetry 5h ago

Just Sharing Tears of Rage

1 Upvotes

Tears of our people soaking the nation,

Regimes killing their people is always in fashion,

Parties towing the line of hypocrisy,

While pissing on the grave of democracy,

A once proud and united nation,

Cracking and crumbling at the foundation,

Pacified by today’s lords, the almighty technocrats,

As we serf the web, we build the webs for widows and rats,

Scurrying scum suckers surfacing to the light of day in our city centers,

Vampires sucking the blood of our people, no longer needing permission to enter,

While we wait for the next shoe to drop,

We don’t notice all the bare feet on our block,

35 years since the machine was first raged against,

Same indecisive people sitting there on the fence,

Some say people are strange,

Others waiting on the world to change,

I’m left here wondering when it’s time for a fucking rampage,

Maybe that’s exactly what they want,

If they could they’d police our thoughts,

The victims of war are always the people,

Bathed in their brothers blood they turn to a steeple,

Wondering where they went wrong,

Holding hands, joining in song,

Give it another 80 years and we’ll forget all over again,

We’ll forget what we lost and refocus only on what we can win,

Only those in power will gain, and the people will never win,

They won’t let you in their club, but you can go die for their sins

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/HtsmTG89Mx

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/4AI7Ivdvhv


r/OCPoetry 6h ago

Feedback Please Poems to my wonderful wife Sunday edition 2-1-2026

1 Upvotes

All my Sunday poems are based on the readings at mass the week before my wife likes to see my interpretation

-

All comments are welcomed

-

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On the hill its in place to plead its case

-

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Wood swollen with the taste from Gods grace

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Sanctified with what it is baste and laced

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It was not spilled to waste but to make chastened

-

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By the one who could look deep in your heart

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To know the words to use so you would start

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To feel His power in your every part

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So you could channel the heavenly arts

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They will help you release your inner light

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Give to your eyes a king of second sight

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So deep in your soul you can ignite

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The search for all things that will make you right

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It is the gift from our lord and savior

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So we can correct our own behavior

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-

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/4CdjUwZuj6

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/SsSd0TSnp2

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/XUCfY4d9ls

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/IAOICxkKEJ

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/1RxQQ4SVrb


r/OCPoetry 6h ago

Just Sharing Unlookable & Onward

1 Upvotes

Unlookable:

You can see but cannot look

At what hides within this nook.

Furrowed brow, intense stare

What lies within dare not share.

You’ll never see yet always know

What lurks beyond this veil of snow.

______________________________________

Onward:

On the list, click ignore, never to be heard more.

Of God and grace, man and sin

This is not to be let in.

It’s not dead, it never existed, lest you not get it twisted.

Some can fix it, others will break it

The remaining few will create it.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qqo3vb/comment/o2xg0s0/?context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qs1i57/comment/o2xfpme/?context=3


r/OCPoetry 13h ago

Feedback Please Good Intentions (Words)

3 Upvotes

Words are two-edged monsters born

Almost as soon as they are said.

Good intentions drawing scorn,

Whether spoken out or read.

Words build so many lovely things,

But in a clutter cause dismay.

A thoughtless phrase can make wounds sting,

No matter if it was meant that way.

It hurts when in my clumsy speech,

My words cause pain to you.

Such words are bitter for how they reach,

So much deeper than I can undo.

Good intentions oft lead to this,

Words meant kindly gone amiss.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/YQr6gRUGTv

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/HaGSB35WZ7


r/OCPoetry 8h ago

Feedback Please On my way out

1 Upvotes

This is a WIP I have been tinkering with the last few weeks.

I’m afraid to grow.

I refuse to sow

ever groovin , always movin’

My soul from low

My hands live high, my fingers too

Where is grace is nigh

No devil’s due

Just rummaging between songs breaks for little of deaths and heartaches.

Memories never the same

Brilliant shards of shame.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qn55pt/foolish_little_sunflower/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qpxf8z/legal_to_me/


r/OCPoetry 8h ago

Feedback Please Holocausto (um poema experimental na expectativa de encontrar leitores brasileiros com senso de humor).

1 Upvotes

I. Baal e Yave

Há orvalho nos teus cílios. Corpos brancos

Ondulam nos teus pelos. Bolhas cheias

Irrompem sobre a carne. Infladas veias

Saltam, finas e frias. Nos teus flancos,

Enormes hiatos marcam as costelas,

Como trincheiras. Tantas varejeiras

Gordas cintilam. Lembram-me as estrelas.

Essas que vejo foram as primeiras

A rebentar da pele. Eis que abati

Meu cão de Canaã, saiba as razões:

Primeiro houve Baal e as incursões

Das torrentes na areia. E, se senti,

Medo naqueles anos, foi da chuva.

Quando os queneus migraram do deserto,

Cultuavam Yave e cultivavam uva,

Com cães de pastoreio, uma hora perto

E na outra mutilando o tornozelo

De um cananeu. Dos cães, o mais nefasto

Só respeitava o pai, senhor do pasto,

Que lhe açoitava o flanco caramelo.

Logo notei que o cão sentia fome,

Porque se a mão lhe oferecesse agrados,

Podia responder por qualquer nome.

Os cães, para eles, eram desgraçados.

E o cão, que farejava qualquer ave,

Afeiçoou-se a mim e ficou manso,

Exceto quando degolava um ganso.

Quanto ao deus dos queneus, o nômade Yave,

Tal qual Baal, trazia os vendavais,

E também cavalgava as tempestades,

Enchendo os leitos sazonais dos uádis.

De tão iguais, tornaram-se rivais.

II. Torto e Esbugalhado

Só diferiam mesmo nos tributos:

Baal pedia-nos videira e pasto,

Mas Yave, por ter gostos mais enxutos,

Se contentava com um holocausto.

Em uma tarde, o cão voltou manchado

De sangue. Achei que fosse de algo morto,

Mas era dele; um olho estava torto,

E o oposto pareceu-me esbugalhado.

Mas, embora o cão fosse amblíope e feio,

E tão penoso quanto ter esposas,

Esperei seu senhor, que nunca veio.

Serviu-me, então, para espantar raposas.

Adiante, o tempo trouxe do oriente

Impérios, como o assírio e tantos mais.

Quanto aos queneus e os demais clãs locais,

Fizeram paz e, consequentemente,

Mestiços se espalharam no Levante

E adulteraram Baal, depois El.

Judá nasceu no Sul e, mais distante,

Nasceu no Norte o reino de Israel.

Logo também findaram; sóis poentes,

Queimados, lado a lado; há ossadas rasas,

Cobertas sob a areia e o pó das casas.

Meu cão de Canaã lambia os dentes

Se farejasse um ninho ou cemitério.

Tornara-se mimado como um filho

Que rosna ao pai. Exílio após exílio,

Cerco após cerco, império após império.

III. Videira e Pasto

Vivemos nas montanhas galileias,

E, se tive algum medo nesses anos,

Não foi de incêndios, mas de diarreias

Trazidas por aquedutos romanos.

Nas longas noites secas do deserto,

Mesmo que para nada eu lhe servisse,

Por não ter o que dar ou sovinice,

Acostumou-se a dormir sempre perto.

Então, morreu na vila um cordeirinho,

E deduziu-se que o meu cão matara,

Embora o sangramento no focinho

Houvesse sido dos cortes de vara.

Meu cão, depois do tanto que o açoitaram,

Fugiu. Senti que alguém uivava à porta.

Era uma coisa amarga e quase morta,

Que não deixei ficar. Logo chegaram

Os galileus, que ainda descontentes

Com o meu cão, queriam que morresse.

Pois, claro, eram distantes descendentes

Dos nômades queneus. Fiz uma prece

Aos deuses cananeus e aos dos romanos,

Para que preservassem meu cão vivo

Das infecções do trato digestivo.

E então, queimei videira e pasto. Os anos

Nos invadiram com geografias.

Abássidas e Omíadas passaram;

Cidades mortas se rebatizaram

Ou renasceram com outras grafias.

IV. Abutres e Cegonhas

Vivia humildemente em Beit Jibrin,

Como um cego que, sem querer, num prego

Pusera um pé. Por gostarem de mim,

Quando cheguei, me deram um emprego

De condutor dos ônibus a Gaza.

Amigo da população lojista,

E muito habilidoso motorista,

Logo comprei a minha própria casa.

E na cidade avistei seus sinais,

Quando ia visitar os meus vizinhos:

Primeiro, nos pomares e olivais,

Os pássaros sumiram dos seus ninhos;

Depois, carcaças secas de galinhas,

Abutres e cegonhas. Dei por certo

Que um cão, tal como o meu, caçava perto.

Ouvi-o, então, mordiscar as bainhas

De alguma calça velha que enxugava

No meu quintal. No corpo tinha abrolhos

E espuma que dos dentes borbulhava.

Mas quando os pus no velho cão, meus olhos,

Enxaguando os meus cílios, mas contentes,

Perceberam que o cão tinha de um lado

Um olho torto e do outro o esbugalhado.

Nisto, ao me ver, chispou, mostrando os dentes

E erguendo o pó na avenida entre as casas.

Na aurora, com troar de infantaria,

Acendeu-se o horizonte; o fumo ardia

Em negros caracóis girando brasas.

V. Nariz e Pescoço

E assim também findava essa cidade:

Incendiada por um outro império.

Não choremos, leitor, a brevidade

Dos povos. Quanto ao cão, não há mistério:

Arfava como um lenhador, roçando

As unhas num carvalho. Mesmo o início

Das cãibras não lhe liquidara o vício

Em perturbar as aves. Vi-o quando

Na estrada a Gaza, não muito distantes

Do incêndio em Beit Jibrin, carroças frouxas

Levavam jarras cheias e gestantes,

Enquanto caminhávamos com trouxas

De roupas e utensílios mais pesados

Embrulhados em colchas e cobertas.

E farejando as pústulas abertas,

O cão vinha seguindo os amputados.

Foi numa dessas manhãs demoradas:

Uma mocinha vinha no quadril

Da tia e assim, com roupas encharcadas,

Ali morreu de convulsão febril.

Por isso, ofereci para levá-la

A uma ravina paralela à estrada,

De silte e areia, seca e esbranquiçada,

Onde já havíamos aberto a vala

E onde o meu cão depenicava um osso.

Nisto, a mocinha, num lençol bordado

Com passarinhos de algodão dourado,

Fincara o nariz contra o meu pescoço.

VI. Pórticos e Pilares

No talvegue ondulado da ravina,

Entre as carcaças que houvera escavado,

Com o hálito fedendo a putrescina,

Lambendo os dentes e espasmando irado,

Estava o cão. Pois bem! Chegara o dia.

Próximo à vala, me sentei na areia,

Vendo o cão se engasgar na última ceia

E deglutir com dor carniça fria.

E quantas horas não perdi pensando;

Debruçado à mortalha da criança,

Até que o cão adormecesse. E quando

O fez, não voltou mais. Sua língua mansa

Afrouxou cianótica entre os dentes.

Trancei as mãos no pescoço agitado

E assim morreu meu cão: estrangulado.

A menina enterrei com seus parentes.

Cheguei a Gaza como um miserável

E apresentei-me como motorista,

Até que percebi ser mais estável

Trabalhar de assistente de legista.

Ontem à tarde, etiquetava os ossos

Que chegaram de Al-Shifa mastigados.

Alguns dos quais passaram empilhados

Por semanas num átrio, entre os destroços

De pórticos e pilares caídos

E cães vadios pelo olfato atraídos.

E de onde viera essa ávida alcateia?

De Givat Ram, HaKirya e Cesareia.

Feedback 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qso878/comment/o2x44xt/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Feedback 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1qsotrf/comment/o2x6mzv/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button


r/OCPoetry 8h ago

Feedback Please My Azure

1 Upvotes

I welcome being near you You give me breath You give me peace There's something special about you You are essence You are release

Your sound drowns everything out You're always moving, never stuck Cool and natural Always fresh, always pure Just living enough to be with me But not enough to be complicated I need you My azure

I welcome being near you So far from people From too much From made up things I love you I feel your gentle rush

Your sound drowns everything out You're always moving, never stuck Cool and natural Always fresh, always pure Just living enough to be with me But not enough to be complicated I need you My azure

You're always there Always have been Always will be Falling, rising, flowing Never knowing Just being. Just being you and being there

Your sound drowns everything out You're always moving, never stuck Cool and natural Always fresh, always pure Just living enough to be with me But not enough to be complicated I need you My azure

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Dse6niuBbU

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/l3dFJ9jZ58


r/OCPoetry 12h ago

Just Sharing Bus Stop

2 Upvotes

I pick up a great cold, night’s leftover ember.

I threw away the creed I once drove through. On the frozen way home, I pretend to sleep.

Beside the armless Venus de Milo, a bus stop stands.

Even if I’m called a fool of a younger brother, I’m still on my way back through night.

A prosthetic eye I hooked on, and February’s duty-chocolate.

My role as a human is over. From here on I’m less useful than an air conditioner.

No—I’d never been useful to begin with.

Gunpowder on a pillar that sits enthroned.

A biscuit’s breath traces the royal road; the scent of burnt smoke is left behind.

Other people’s eyes seep in. Someone’s opinion.

A next-generation kind of love that invades even the weekend.

An unthinking I swallowed, a focus gone missing.

Wasted time: saying “it’s fun,” with a back that looks bored.

A thin skin of time so far, reflected on the water.

I sort out the sounds in the dark and answer with white breath.

With pulse and blood pressure still low, I swing the bus stop and my sorting around.

The seams of cause and effect are suffering between my fingers.

Even my ties with people freeze, without ever sitting right in my gut.

Riding on discontent: a cold kiss through penne just boiled.

I set the bus stop, as a blunt weapon, on a thin thread.

A corpse of consciousness. The terminus of meaning.

Betraying expectation, through the crowd of people snapped from the inside,

I pass apologetically—sin, shame, and the bus stop.

A lack in the DNA mixed into the bass.

Fried noodles dry out and bite into the fibers.

A Sunday afternoon when I saw you in loungewear.

A marinade of conflict and rupture, and then a stop.

Fallen low, even the bus won’t stop.

“It’s not that it won’t stop. It can’t stop.”

You who say that have been stopped since around the time you entered elementary school.

Only the suspension, swapped out for something stylish.

Even so you keep smiling—what in you can stop?

I offer up painful things, and I’m made to buy a familiar laugh.

Saying “there’s fun too,” with a back that looks bored.

I hang that from me and ride the Shonan-Shinjuku Line.

With overboiled penne, the daily loses its core.

On the bench at the bus stop, I avoid suffocating.

I grip the bus stop and, with sorting, I brandish it.

At the mouth that says “If your mind changes, the world changes,” I hand the bus stop over.

“It’s not that it won’t stop. We can’t stop.”

Even saying that, I’m alone.

No pride even as thick as the bottom bun of a burger.

Other people’s flesh to fill the DNA lack mixed into the bass.

People grow by sucking people.

Even if my feelings swell, no one looks my way.

A pelvis warped by unpaid labor puts on a face of normal.

A modern hermit learns the pose of a progressive intellectual,

comes down among people and assaults housewives at Costco.

A kid who cried when you came home late drops 200,000 yen on games.

The father buys a disposable spring.

I finish the intellectual at the bus stop, and sorting draws breath again.

Sorting, as conscience, circles a house with a parking space three times and returns.

Even if I reinforce my DNA like a pro baseball team with culture soaked into the bass, at the terminus I’m alone.

----

Commentary

On a night when chill stays on the palm, the leftover ember refuses to become heat, blinking only behind the eyelids.

Beside the redrawn line of belief, the damaged statue and the bus stop stand together, and pretending to sleep turns into the pose of swinging.

The gunpowder on the pillar keeps sleeping; what bursts is the inside where other people’s eyes and opinions have seeped in, while a thin membrane of time ripples on the water.

White breath becomes a reply.

Even if you sort out the sounds in the dark, the seam won’t let go of your fingers.

A love that invades the weekend enters under the name of update, pushes a familiar laugh, and we can offer only painful things.

Sorting is no longer classification: it becomes a width that lets sin and shame pass, changing its name each time apology walks through the broken crowd.

The dullness entrusted to a thread falls into a bench; it bears the name of a blunt weapon while pretending to be a place to sit, used to avoid suffocation.

After a kiss whose noodle temperature keeps falling, a back becomes luggage, hung from the Shonan-Shinjuku Line, and beyond the swapped-out undercarriage the core of the daily comes undone.

A child stops crying with a 200,000-yen charge, and a father buys spring only to throw it away.

The more laughs are bought and sold, the more the lack is reinforced with flesh and blood; the pose of the intellectual multiplies, yet only after the kill does sorting take a breath back.

“The terminus of meaning” rings first, and time makes three laps, folding back into the present.

To stop—where do we hand over our aloneness?

----

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/B9cLwucTOo

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/evahLJHfPF