u/Ok_Manufacturer_195

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/xx5U6RtWVq

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

An old machine
still connected to the mains —
barely operable.

Ten men pulling at the plug,
straining against years of resistance,
feeling it shift
millimetre by millimetre.

Then finally —

it tears free from the socket,
revealing the clean outline beneath,
a pristine mark
surrounded by decades
of cigarette-stained walls
and spilled drinks.

Neglect leaves shadows
even after removal.

Now something new is wired in.

Fresh lights flashing.
New chimes ringing out
to lure a different crowd
through the same tired doors.

My mind never used to need
this much rewiring.

Yet here we are.

Broken pieces removed carefully,
replaced with newer parts —
shiny, functional,
but undeniably different
from what came before.

Thoughts and feelings
swirl together
into some unfamiliar abyss.

And through it all,
the poison of vine, grain, fruit, and root
helps loosen the rusted bolts
holding old versions of myself in place.

Clarity arrives strangely —

through sleeplessness,
through tear-streaked exhaustion,
through substance-soaked dawn light
spilling across the floorboards.

That’s where the truth waits.

No longer in what could have been,
but in what still might come.

Adventure and peace
walking side by side
through a world
never designed
for modular minds like ours.

An old machine
still connected to the mains —
barely operable.

Ten men pulling at the plug,
straining against years of resistance,
feeling it shift
millimetre by millimetre.

Then finally —

it tears free from the socket,
revealing the clean outline beneath,
a pristine mark
surrounded by decades
of cigarette-stained walls
and spilled drinks.

Neglect leaves shadows
even after removal.

Now something new is wired in.

Fresh lights flashing.
New chimes ringing out
to lure a different crowd
through the same tired doors.

My mind never used to need
this much rewiring.

Yet here we are.

Broken pieces removed carefully,
replaced with newer parts —
shiny, functional,
but undeniably different
from what came before.

Thoughts and feelings
swirl together
into some unfamiliar abyss.

And through it all,
the poison of vine, grain, fruit, and root
helps loosen the rusted bolts
holding old versions of myself in place.

Clarity arrives strangely —

through sleeplessness,
through tear-streaked exhaustion,
through substance-soaked dawn light
spilling across the floorboards.

That’s where the truth waits.

No longer in what could have been,
but in what still might come.

Adventure and peace
walking side by side
through a world
never designed
for modular minds like ours.

An old machine
still connected to the mains —
barely operable.

Ten men pulling at the plug,
straining against years of resistance,
feeling it shift
millimetre by millimetre.

Then finally —

it tears free from the socket,
revealing the clean outline beneath,
a pristine mark
surrounded by decades
of cigarette-stained walls
and spilled drinks.

Neglect leaves shadows
even after removal.

Now something new is wired in.

Fresh lights flashing.
New chimes ringing out
to lure a different crowd
through the same tired doors.

My mind never used to need
this much rewiring.

Yet here we are.

Broken pieces removed carefully,
replaced with newer parts —
shiny, functional,
but undeniably different
from what came before.

Thoughts and feelings
swirl together
into some unfamiliar abyss.

And through it all,
the poison of vine, grain, fruit, and root
helps loosen the rusted bolts
holding old versions of myself in place.

Clarity arrives strangely —

through sleeplessness,
through tear-streaked exhaustion,
through substance-soaked dawn light
spilling across the floorboards.

That’s where the truth waits.

No longer in what could have been,
but in what still might come.

Adventure and peace
walking side by side
through a world
never designed
for modular minds like ours.

An old machine
still connected to the mains —
barely operable.

Ten men pulling at the plug,
straining against years of resistance,
feeling it shift
millimetre by millimetre.

Then finally —

it tears free from the socket,
revealing the clean outline beneath,
a pristine mark
surrounded by decades
of cigarette-stained walls
and spilled drinks.

Neglect leaves shadows
even after removal.

Now something new is wired in.

Fresh lights flashing.
New chimes ringing out
to lure a different crowd
through the same tired doors.

My mind never used to need
this much rewiring.

Yet here we are.

Broken pieces removed carefully,
replaced with newer parts —
shiny, functional,
but undeniably different
from what came before.

Thoughts and feelings
swirl together
into some unfamiliar abyss.

And through it all,
the poison of vine, grain, fruit, and root
helps loosen the rusted bolts
holding old versions of myself in place.

Clarity arrives strangely —

through sleeplessness,
through tear-streaked exhaustion,
through substance-soaked dawn light
spilling across the floorboards.

That’s where the truth waits.

No longer in what could have been,
but in what still might come.

Adventure and peace
walking side by side
through a world
never designed
for modular minds like ours.

An old machine
still connected to the mains —
barely operable.

Ten men pulling at the plug,
straining against years of resistance,
feeling it shift
millimetre by millimetre.

Then finally —

it tears free from the socket,
revealing the clean outline beneath,
a pristine mark
surrounded by decades
of cigarette-stained walls
and spilled drinks.

Neglect leaves shadows
even after removal.

Now something new is wired in.

Fresh lights flashing.
New chimes ringing out
to lure a different crowd
through the same tired doors.

My mind never used to need
this much rewiring.

Yet here we are.

Broken pieces removed carefully,
replaced with newer parts —
shiny, functional,
but undeniably different
from what came before.

Thoughts and feelings
swirl together
into some unfamiliar abyss.

And through it all,
the poison of vine, grain, fruit, and root
helps loosen the rusted bolts
holding old versions of myself in place.

Clarity arrives strangely —

through sleeplessness,
through tear-streaked exhaustion,
through substance-soaked dawn light
spilling across the floorboards.

That’s where the truth waits.

No longer in what could have been,
but in what still might come.

Adventure and peace
walking side by side
through a world
never designed
for modular minds like ours.

An old machine
still connected to the mains —
barely operable.

Ten men pulling at the plug,
straining against years of resistance,
feeling it shift
millimetre by millimetre.

Then finally —

it tears free from the socket,
revealing the clean outline beneath,
a pristine mark
surrounded by decades
of cigarette-stained walls
and spilled drinks.

Neglect leaves shadows
even after removal.

Now something new is wired in.

Fresh lights flashing.
New chimes ringing out
to lure a different crowd
through the same tired doors.

My mind never used to need
this much rewiring.

Yet here we are.

Broken pieces removed carefully,
replaced with newer parts —
shiny, functional,
but undeniably different
from what came before.

Thoughts and feelings
swirl together
into some unfamiliar abyss.

And through it all,
the poison of vine, grain, fruit, and root
helps loosen the rusted bolts
holding old versions of myself in place.

Clarity arrives strangely —

through sleeplessness,
through tear-streaked exhaustion,
through substance-soaked dawn light
spilling across the floorboards.

That’s where the truth waits.

No longer in what could have been,
but in what still might come.

Adventure and peace
walking side by side
through a world
never designed
for modular minds like ours.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/xx5U6RtWVq

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

Maybe I’m someone’s almost.
Maybe that’s all I ever am.

It feels like no matter how much I give,
I still end up temporary in people’s lives —
a passing presence,
a name that fades back into noise.

The guy in the back.
The quiet one.
The one who shows love
the way he wishes it was shown back.

A man built to carry weight
like Olympus on his shoulders —
not just his own,
but everyone else’s storms too.

No man should be an island…
but what choice is there
when that’s all you’re ever taught to become?

Love given freely,
but somehow never staying long enough
to feel like home.

And I start to wonder
if I was built more for departure
than arrival.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/xx5U6RtWVq

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

Dreams mapped on salt waves
Still I wait for steady hands
That choose me and stay

Futures washed away
Yet part of me still searches
For a home that stays

This is classed as I have learned as a double haiku and personally I feel this says way more than the words that are presented

Dreams mapped on salt waves
Still I wait for steady hands
That choose me and stay

Futures washed away
Yet part of me still searches
For a home that stays

This is classed as I have learned as a double haiku and personally I feel this says way more than the words that are presented

Dreams mapped on salt waves
Still I wait for steady hands
That choose me and stay

Futures washed away
Yet part of me still searches
For a home that stays

This is classed as I have learned as a double haiku and personally I feel this says way more than the words that are presented

Dreams mapped on salt waves
Still I wait for steady hands
That choose me and stay

Futures washed away
Yet part of me still searches
For a home that stays

This is classed as I have learned as a double haiku and personally I feel this says way more than the words that are presented

Dreams mapped on salt waves
Still I wait for steady hands
That choose me and stay

Futures washed away
Yet part of me still searches
For a home that stays

This is classed as I have learned as a double haiku and personally I feel this says way more than the words that are presented

Bricks of Self-Sabotage

The quiet builds even in full rooms —
a lump in my throat, sealing my mouth shut.

Most offer false understanding,
surface smiles and half-listening ears.

I built these walls myself,
fear of being hurt again
mixed with a desperate craving to finally be known.

Only a few ever came close.

One was taken when I was fourteen —
ripped my heart in a way nothing has fixed since.

The other is my brother — not by blood,
but by fire — the only one left who even half understands me.

Waves roll heavy under a darkening sky,
storm clouds gathering like old regrets.

In these dim, trembling moments I feel it clearly —
the self-sabotage, the walls, the hungry call of the meat grinder.

I push myself into soulless jobs,
feeding my body to the machine,
breaking bone and mind in its teeth
just to feel something other than this ache in my chest.

I know this is avoidance.

My mind won’t let me face it head-on,
no matter how hard I try.
So I pick up another mask in the low light —
silence and false resilience.

Easier than sitting with the storm inside.

Endless spirals about where I went wrong,
what I could have done differently,
the reactions I thought were normal but clearly weren’t.

Maybe I always jump the gun.
They say there’s a lid for every pot…
but I’ve searched and searched,
and now I’m done.

Perhaps peace isn’t a person.

Maybe it’s a place.

Maybe the journey itself will show me
where I’m supposed to land.

This world was never built for eyes like mine —
crafted for the masses,
same thoughts, same meals, same tiny, safe dreams.

I drift outside it all,
mind fractured and scattered to the wind,
spending years trying to understand
what no one else wants to see.

Howling wind and merciless sun ride beside me,
until the storms come hungry for their turn.

They call it broken.

Diagnoses nod in agreement.

Fractured mind, they say.

But I see what they refuse to —
beyond the control, beyond the script,
past the pretty lies they wrap around their cages.

In this ocean of insults, hollow beliefs,
and souls too afraid to truly run,
I float — engines growling, sails ready to tear.

Crazy, they whispered.
Unusual.
Not a way to live.

“Maybe in ten years,” they laughed,
right before I jumped.

Now only a crew of three sails with me,
tiny lights against a black sea of billions.

A dream of raw, merciless freedom —
wanting nothing more than what we have,
quiet, calm,
no longer preparing for war every waking hour.

I trace old scars while progress crawls forward,
learning how to feel again —
not softer,

but sharper,

clearer,
more dangerous.

A life of a madman doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

Maybe I’m not the madman.

Maybe the whole fucking world is…..

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/xx5U6RtWVq

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

It has been seven days
and the world feels both shattered and untouched.
You are gone, yet the ache remains —
a quiet bruise that refuses to fade.

I would lie if I said it didn’t hurt.

But I am moving forward,
slow as tide over stone,
toward something I cannot yet name.

I see it now:
I was never chasing you, nor us.
I was chasing the future I painted in my head.

Those colors have run.

We were not wrong for each other —
only mistimed.

Two ships passing in the wrong season.
I am editing the old poems,
removing your shadow from every line.

The trinkets and tokens of our love
I scattered to the tide,
watching them sink beneath the waves.

New faces drift across my days.

They remind me that even after surrender,
life still offers its hand.

I no longer hunt for love.

I simply move differently —
more rooted, more mine.

I wish you every gentle thing.

Every quiet harbor.

Every peace I once hoped we could become.

Perhaps our paths will cross again?

when distant shores remember each other.
Perhaps not.

For a little while, it was good…
wasn’t it?

I remain here —
a small light on the water.

If you ever need to talk,
you can still find me.

But these storms I keep to myself now.

It is easier this way……

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/xx5U6RtWVq

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

Sorry for the spamming over the past week but i hope everyone doesn’t mind me letting these feelings out in works like this.

Just let me know your thoughts