June 2026 - Hello Poetry

This was a road; an old map told me so. A trail, I’d say, and sometimes less than that. It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know. It started as an even bed of chat. A mile beyond the gate, it turned to clay, And here the leaves have not been trampled flat. I look between the trees to guess my way: Among the oaks, a space one wagon wide. Who drove here? Are their sons alive today? And can I rightly say the old map lied? The future’s not what maps are made to show. Life’s like this road—it cannot be denied: The way’s less clear the further in you go. It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.

0

bdlukey

An Old Roadbed

This was a road; an old map told me so. A trail, I’d say, and sometimes less than that. It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know. It started as an even bed of chat. A mile beyond the gate, it turned to clay, And here the leaves have not been trampled flat. I look between the trees to guess my way: Among the oaks, a space one wagon wide. Who drove here? Are their sons alive today? And can I rightly say the old map lied? The future’s not what maps are made to show. Life’s like this road—it cannot be denied: The way’s less clear the further in you go. It’s hard to walk, and harder still to know.

14

You were never meant to carry the weight of becoming flawless. Still, you stood in front of the mirrors counting every crack within yourself as if broken things could never be loved. But look closely The moon survives with scars, old books survive with folded pages, and hearts survive even after being left unheard. There is something deeply human about unfinished people. The way they hesitate while speaking, the way their hands shake before holding someone else’s pain, the way they smile even after difficult days. Perfection is cold. It does not tremble, does not heal, does not understand. But imperfect people— they learn softness from every wound. They become gentle because life once wasn’t gentle with them. And maybe that is enough. Maybe being human was never about shining without flaws, but about continuing to love, to try, to stay kind while carrying all those invisible storms inside. So if you ever feel incomplete, remember this— some souls are beautiful not because they are perfect, but because they remained good in a world that gave them every reason not to.

0

vimi

Being Perfect in Imperfect

You were never meant to carry the weight of becoming flawless. Still, you stood in front of the mirrors counting every crack within yourself as if broken things could never be loved. But look closely The moon survives with scars, old books survive with folded pages, and hearts survive even after being left unheard. There is something deeply human about unfinished people. The way they hesitate while speaking, the way their hands shake before holding someone else’s pain, the way they smile even after difficult days. Perfection is cold. It does not tremble, does not heal, does not understand. But imperfect people— they learn softness from every wound. They become gentle because life once wasn’t gentle with them. And maybe that is enough. Maybe being human was never about shining without flaws, but about continuing to love, to try, to stay kind while carrying all those invisible storms inside. So if you ever feel incomplete, remember this— some souls are beautiful not because they are perfect, but because they remained good in a world that gave them every reason not to.

42

I'd give you the hair-tie around my wrist. I'd make you laugh, and I'd cry for you when your back was turned. I'd braid your hair, and tell you I love you. I'd talk until you couldn't help but believe that was true. I'd give you the world, the moon, and the stars. I'd make you feel safe again. I'd braid your worries into confidence. I'd talk you off the tallest ledge. I'd give you the hair-tie around my wrist, Because in a world where I'd do anything, That's all that I can do.

0

it_was_always_about_Her

Hair-Tie

I'd give you the hair-tie around my wrist. I'd make you laugh, and I'd cry for you when your back was turned. I'd braid your hair, and tell you I love you. I'd talk until you couldn't help but believe that was true. I'd give you the world, the moon, and the stars. I'd make you feel safe again. I'd braid your worries into confidence. I'd talk you off the tallest ledge. I'd give you the hair-tie around my wrist, Because in a world where I'd do anything, That's all that I can do.

11

* a field of yes when Yes was still young it lived nowhere Nigde knew this Nigde always knows first someone sat beside it writing music that taught birds how to arrive before arriving meanwhile the Ministry of Gravity continued filing complaints against dancing the flowers ignored them naturally by midsummer the complaints had rooted somewhere a woman laughed at a broken umbrella and the rain having lost the argument fell softer a forgotten garden continued its negotiations with spring the result was green highly unofficial entirely convincing all day people kept arriving with their impossible hearts stitched from worry music bad timing hope and whatever it was that taught the stars to remain after burning by evening even the stones had begun considering forgiveness yes said the garden yes said the rain yes said the stone yes said the hand reaching before certainty and somewhere Nigde smiled as if it had known all along that the world despite its borders despite its careful instructions was secretly a field learning how to say yes * Atlas of Almost Nigde keeps a small notebook sewn from distances in it are written all the places whose names never caught up the river before flow the road before direction the window before the view whole countries made entirely of almost some are still waiting in forests beneath lakes inside abandoned songs others pass through briefly and leave without introducing at night Nigde turns a page and another horizon goes missing

0

RastislavKnezi

The Cartography of Nigde

* a field of yes when Yes was still young it lived nowhere Nigde knew this Nigde always knows first someone sat beside it writing music that taught birds how to arrive before arriving meanwhile the Ministry of Gravity continued filing complaints against dancing the flowers ignored them naturally by midsummer the complaints had rooted somewhere a woman laughed at a broken umbrella and the rain having lost the argument fell softer a forgotten garden continued its negotiations with spring the result was green highly unofficial entirely convincing all day people kept arriving with their impossible hearts stitched from worry music bad timing hope and whatever it was that taught the stars to remain after burning by evening even the stones had begun considering forgiveness yes said the garden yes said the rain yes said the stone yes said the hand reaching before certainty and somewhere Nigde smiled as if it had known all along that the world despite its borders despite its careful instructions was secretly a field learning how to say yes * Atlas of Almost Nigde keeps a small notebook sewn from distances in it are written all the places whose names never caught up the river before flow the road before direction the window before the view whole countries made entirely of almost some are still waiting in forests beneath lakes inside abandoned songs others pass through briefly and leave without introducing at night Nigde turns a page and another horizon goes missing

100

i will never understand why there is so much hatred towards a community so built on love that it can be seen in every color of our rainbow red is the blazing fire the all-consuming passion our heartbeats pounding in unison orange is the citrus the shared snack basking in the tangy sugariness juice running down our faces yellow is the sunshine the light the joy of being who we are and letting ourselves shine through the grey green is the emerald the precious gem we found underground and buried in stone while at our deepest and darkest blue is the sky on a cloudless summer day serene and undisturbed peaceful indigo is the flood the unstoppable force breaking down walls and transcending all barriers violet is the flowers and butterflies and beautiful moments we thought were out of reach for us the reality is there will always be people who choose to hate us for our electric love but at the end of the day they're the ones missing out because they've made themselves blind to our screaming color

0

ShatteredSculpture

rainbow

i will never understand why there is so much hatred towards a community so built on love that it can be seen in every color of our rainbow red is the blazing fire the all-consuming passion our heartbeats pounding in unison orange is the citrus the shared snack basking in the tangy sugariness juice running down our faces yellow is the sunshine the light the joy of being who we are and letting ourselves shine through the grey green is the emerald the precious gem we found underground and buried in stone while at our deepest and darkest blue is the sky on a cloudless summer day serene and undisturbed peaceful indigo is the flood the unstoppable force breaking down walls and transcending all barriers violet is the flowers and butterflies and beautiful moments we thought were out of reach for us the reality is there will always be people who choose to hate us for our electric love but at the end of the day they're the ones missing out because they've made themselves blind to our screaming color

42

A little wind shakes the tips of my shoelaces, untied. I see them dangle in the pale blue skies. Brief memory. Forgotten times. Shuddering realizations. Rotten pines. Yearning for the was, for the used to be. Futures lie fogged like my face in the mirror after a too hot shower. Remember. Forget. Together. Regret. Tussled hair tangled in the periphery. A blurry smear of inky shade draped across everything. A tinge of tomorrow. A solemn hue of sleep. The color of the now is too murky to see. Too wet with mud and too, too... Too tired. Too sick to be of much use. Too sick to be of much use at all.

0

Listerineyedrops

Little wind

A little wind shakes the tips of my shoelaces, untied. I see them dangle in the pale blue skies. Brief memory. Forgotten times. Shuddering realizations. Rotten pines. Yearning for the was, for the used to be. Futures lie fogged like my face in the mirror after a too hot shower. Remember. Forget. Together. Regret. Tussled hair tangled in the periphery. A blurry smear of inky shade draped across everything. A tinge of tomorrow. A solemn hue of sleep. The color of the now is too murky to see. Too wet with mud and too, too... Too tired. Too sick to be of much use. Too sick to be of much use at all.

34

i have seen wildfires, heard rumors but nothing spreads as fast as words on a page when i write about you

0

mcdonald-tsiie

june's flower

i have seen wildfires, heard rumors but nothing spreads as fast as words on a page when i write about you

5