Telephone, but for poetry.
One line. Three minutes. No idea what came before. Strangers around the world finish the poem with you — and the reveal is half the fun.
How a Rhyma poem comes alive
A collaborative poetry game in four steps.
Pick up a poem
You'll see only the last line a stranger wrote. The rest is hidden. You have 3 minutes.
Add your line
5 to 66 characters. Make it rhyme, break the rhyme, change the mood. Then it flies onward.
Watch it travel
Your poem hops from writer to writer across countries. You won't see what they wrote — yet.
The reveal
When the last line lands, the whole thing unlocks. Every line, every author, every detour.
A 4-line glimpse of how it works.
A stranger drops you a line. You twist it your way and pass it on. Days later, your phone buzzes: the poem is done. You open it — and four strangers just wrote something that almost makes sense. That's the reveal.
"Shall I compare thee…"
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
— Will_S_1599"Thou art more late than the 8:14 bus"
— InkSpiller"The moon, meanwhile, owed the cat money"
— LunaTick"So he filed the paperwork in triplicate"
— BureauCatEvery poem leaves a trail.
Your line was written in Kyiv. The next, in São Paulo. Then Tokyo. Then a bedroom in Lisbon at 2am. When the poem finishes, you don't just read it — you see the map. Every city it passed through. Every stranger who carried it forward.
Collect weird little badges.
First poem finished. 100 km of poem-travel. Lines in 5 languages. A 7-day streak. A line someone reacted to with 🔥. Some are bronze, some neon-rare — all sit in your profile like a tiny museum of strange poems you helped exist.
Questions, answered.
Everything you might wonder before your first line.
What is Rhyma?
Does Rhyma use AI to write poems?
How long does it take to write a Rhyma line?
What happens when a poem is finished?
Is Rhyma free?
What platforms is Rhyma available on?
Stop doomscrolling. Start mis-rhyming.
Five minutes on Rhyma feels nothing like five minutes on a feed. No likes to chase, no ratio to lose. Just one line, three minutes, and a poem you'll never write alone again.
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