I miss you sadly and so much!
And even if I just don’t know you,
Or maybe I won’t nay find you
And in no case and never lose you.

I miss the words. I miss so much
The words, that never will be spoken,
The dreams, that knotted not on me.
They’ll be fulfilled not us, but someone.

I miss the hands. I miss so much!
They would be able to hug sweetly.
I miss the hair, careless a bit,
And lips… Yes, lips! I miss them really!

I miss their touching, hot and sultry,
Which can just never been delivered.
But even as I never know you,
I’ll love you truly with a quiver.

If my body were strings—
Dancing to pure vibration
Granting the possibility
of lively, touchable matter,
Matter itself would hinge
on the sweet tremor of your name.

It sure felt the rip—
Heart out my ribs—
when your voice went silent.

Still,
in love-frequencies,
such filaments rejoice:
knotting and tangling
replaying us through
Several hidden dimensions—

Or whatever modern physics
keeps hinting at it.

I lost my focus—dreaming a quantum leap—

Believe me:
Such threads tense at every thought
of their plausible alignments:
A bunch of them making
Your ancestors’ atoms colliding!
Just so one day
— for my own personal desire—
one random entanglement
could finally produce—
the loveliest colour
your eyes would have.

On the surface, Hello Poetry is a haven: a digital campfire where voices gather to warm each other against the cold expanse of the internet. A place where the line between confession and creation often blurs, and where the act of writing is not performance, but survival.

But lately, the fire has grown too bright—artificially bright.

They call them suns—badges of appreciation, visible tokens of endorsement. A nice idea, right? Support a poet. Shine a spotlight. But as with all systems that monetize visibility, the spotlight becomes a searchlight—and it stops illuminating truth. It blinds us instead.

The Distortion of the Feed
Let’s be clear: this is not about sour grapes or petty envy. It’s about who gets seen, and why.

When you pay $15 for five suns, or receive them via subscription, you can choose to boost any work. Once sunned, this poem trends. And if you sun multiple works, the system staggers their rise—today, tomorrow, the next. It’s orderly. Predictable.

And utterly devastating to the organic ecosystem of the front page.

On days when these sunned poems stack high, young writers—often screaming silently through metaphors—are buried. Their work no longer rides the wave of genuine engagement. It gets eclipsed by well-polished pieces with patrons, not peers.

I scrolled today through endless sunshine, only to discover—way down below—the voices of kids trying to survive abuse. Strangers admitting they're scared to wake up. Teens reaching out through enjambment because they have no one else. And they were hidden. Flattened beneath an algorithm that rewards polish over pulse, polish over pain.

HePo Isn’t 911—But It’s a Lifeline
We can’t pretend that Hello Poetry is a substitute for emergency services. It’s not. But we also can’t pretend that this space doesn’t carry immense emotional gravity. For many—especially the young and unseen—it is the only place they’ve ever received an honest comment. An echo. A sign that their words matter.

When a trending system sidelines vulnerability in favor of vanity, it commits a subtle violence. It reinforces that unless your work is sunworthy, it isn’t worthy at all.

Let’s Not Confuse Curation with Censorship
This is not a call to cancel the sun system. This is a call to recalibrate it.

Let paid support elevate—but not suffocate. Let sunned poems shine—but not dominate. Let the front page reflect what it always claimed to: the soul of the community, not the size of its wallet.

We can love poetry and refuse to commodify visibility. We can cherish the bright voices without dimming the urgent ones.

Conclusion: A Platform of Conscience
Hello Poetry, if you are listening, understand this:

You’ve built something precious. Don’t let it rot under the weight of your own reward system. Make room for the cries. Make room for the wild, imperfect, confessional, gasping work. Because if we let only the sunned poems rise, we are choosing applause over advocacy.

And some of these poets?
They don’t need praise.
They need an ear to be heard.


Thank you for reading.

Re-post if you agree ❤️

Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.

You strike that flint
With a mineral ball
You tinder fire
It's not special at all.

I've just seen a pigeon
In the heavy rain
Clinging on to
The surface
Of a sheer brick wall
I didn't know
They could do that
I was waiting for the fall
Was this fellah
The Alex Honnold
Of his feathered breed?
Or do they do it all the time
And I've just never seen?
He flapped his wings
Now and then to adjust his grip
But he hung right in there
With barely a slip
Then I saw it
He motivation anew
The bird feeder was busy
He was stuck in a queue.

(Maddy’s Music challenge:
“Write a poem based on three words from a song.”
Song: 'Words of love' by the Beatles 1964)

I’m the harshest critic,
the truest of nonbelievers,
when words of love are used.
Soapy words will not deliver
so please stop trying to be smooth.

Don’t compare me to a summer’s day!
I know that’s from some Broadway play.

Waste not flattery’s rose
praise not my grace,
at least not to my face,
you’re better off praising my clothes.

Forgo sweetness, promise nothing
then you may be onto something
say it, straight up, I won’t faint
trust me, sir, I am no saint.
.
.
A song for this:
Words of love by the Beatles