#publishedpoet - Hello Poetry

She likes to play, hopscotch, when it rains. The colors brighten, and then, they fade. She splashes in squares, numbers, that are no longer, there. As the rain pours, she smiles, and skips, playtime never, ends.

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Feb 8

Feb 8, 2026 at 1:21 PM UTC

DatoreFargo

Hopscotch

She likes to play, hopscotch, when it rains. The colors brighten, and then, they fade. She splashes in squares, numbers, that are no longer, there. As the rain pours, she smiles, and skips, playtime never, ends.

15

The moon told me, that everything would be, okay. I believed her. And I know, for a fact, that butterflies are, angels coming to say, hello, just a little visit, because they miss us. I promise, it’s the truth, I would never lie, not to you. Also magic is real, if you look hard enough, just feel it, it’s right there. Isn’t it beautiful? Just simply, the world? It truly is, the little things, the rain, the sound of the dogs, chasing the mail man, down the street, it makes you laugh, but it bubbles up, like soda pop, and magic.

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Feb 2

Feb 2, 2026 at 2:09 PM UTC

DatoreFargo

Once,

The moon told me, that everything would be, okay. I believed her. And I know, for a fact, that butterflies are, angels coming to say, hello, just a little visit, because they miss us. I promise, it’s the truth, I would never lie, not to you. Also magic is real, if you look hard enough, just feel it, it’s right there. Isn’t it beautiful? Just simply, the world? It truly is, the little things, the rain, the sound of the dogs, chasing the mail man, down the street, it makes you laugh, but it bubbles up, like soda pop, and magic.

32

I grew up here, she says, such a small town, brick roads, that sparkle, like her eyes, in the rain. She used to hate it, and grit her teeth, when you walked away, things changed. Real grass, got replaced, with fake, for safety, they say. I grew up here, she says, where teenagers, cruise main. It’s like a movie, that you never realized, you were apart of. I grew up here, she said.

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Jan 12

Jan 12, 2026 at 3:39 PM UTC

DatoreFargo

She Says

I grew up here, she says, such a small town, brick roads, that sparkle, like her eyes, in the rain. She used to hate it, and grit her teeth, when you walked away, things changed. Real grass, got replaced, with fake, for safety, they say. I grew up here, she says, where teenagers, cruise main. It’s like a movie, that you never realized, you were apart of. I grew up here, she said.

25

You can begin again, through the wind, and the trees, just another simple breeze, you can begin again. A dandelion that, a child will blow, to make a wish, we will never know, you can begin again. It’s that simple, a smile you feel, at the corner, of your lips, you can begin again. Look in the mirror, and see the reflection, there is not a thing, you need to fear, you can begin again. Just jump with me, let go of everything, close your eyes, let’s begin again.

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Feb 25

Feb 25, 2026 at 4:12 PM UTC

DatoreFargo

Begin

You can begin again, through the wind, and the trees, just another simple breeze, you can begin again. A dandelion that, a child will blow, to make a wish, we will never know, you can begin again. It’s that simple, a smile you feel, at the corner, of your lips, you can begin again. Look in the mirror, and see the reflection, there is not a thing, you need to fear, you can begin again. Just jump with me, let go of everything, close your eyes, let’s begin again.

24

i don't consider myself much of an author though you could call me a poet i have a book, turns out i guess i've been living under its illusion but today, after three months of it being public i held it in my hands and went through the pages i'm not super proud, i'll admit it's not perfect, barely anything if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look poetic or pass off as poetry i'm no professional, barely perfection but the title does say perhaps we could be anything so here i was, reading through, found a good few but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought when i penned down that thought and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing? _thing, huh._ really low of me to put it that way when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake no plans, thoroughly unrequired i know many creators ones who are artists, and they almost always mention _“i'm not really proud of that one”_ — the particular one that marked their beginning but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules that lead to more such evenings when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece, put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon — maybe not everyone would critique are we ever really proud of all that we do? do we really accept it? then this particular vision erupted in my head i held the book, held it in my hands and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed i was left to accept that if anyone wanted, they could have had parts of me the specific ones inside the book and the ones in the title and in the words and in the emotions that led it on and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there? perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice not super proud again — but hey, _i'm a poet!_ i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads i think i might be onto something like let it enfold you by charles bukowski god, i don't know the man not his works or of any other plans but i do know that words stick the meaning they carry does too and if i say i love the book (yet to like it) _will you read it for me too?_

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May 29, 2025

May 29, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC

poeticaofisshues

perhaps we could be stars

i don't consider myself much of an author though you could call me a poet i have a book, turns out i guess i've been living under its illusion but today, after three months of it being public i held it in my hands and went through the pages i'm not super proud, i'll admit it's not perfect, barely anything if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look poetic or pass off as poetry i'm no professional, barely perfection but the title does say perhaps we could be anything so here i was, reading through, found a good few but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought when i penned down that thought and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing? _thing, huh._ really low of me to put it that way when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake no plans, thoroughly unrequired i know many creators ones who are artists, and they almost always mention _“i'm not really proud of that one”_ — the particular one that marked their beginning but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules that lead to more such evenings when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece, put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon — maybe not everyone would critique are we ever really proud of all that we do? do we really accept it? then this particular vision erupted in my head i held the book, held it in my hands and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed i was left to accept that if anyone wanted, they could have had parts of me the specific ones inside the book and the ones in the title and in the words and in the emotions that led it on and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there? perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice not super proud again — but hey, _i'm a poet!_ i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads i think i might be onto something like let it enfold you by charles bukowski god, i don't know the man not his works or of any other plans but i do know that words stick the meaning they carry does too and if i say i love the book (yet to like it) _will you read it for me too?_

55

I can see, the air move, and I’m not quite sure, what that means. But I know, that the lines, can help me, breathe. They move freely, between me, and I breathe deeply, although sometimes, I choke on words, that don’t come out. Maybe my tongue is, twisted, like she, sells seashells, by the seashore, but I’ve never seen, the ocean. I just know, what tears taste like, salty, and bitter. But I know, what air looks like, lines that move, and it’s beautiful, if you look, hard enough.

0

Mar 23

Mar 23, 2026 at 3:47 PM UTC

DatoreFargo

Lines

I can see, the air move, and I’m not quite sure, what that means. But I know, that the lines, can help me, breathe. They move freely, between me, and I breathe deeply, although sometimes, I choke on words, that don’t come out. Maybe my tongue is, twisted, like she, sells seashells, by the seashore, but I’ve never seen, the ocean. I just know, what tears taste like, salty, and bitter. But I know, what air looks like, lines that move, and it’s beautiful, if you look, hard enough.

31

You told me, the sky was blue, then one day, I looked up, and it wasn’t. It was a purple sky, made just for me, full of clouds, in shapes of giraffes, and lions, a bunny too! The world was different, but my heart the same, it raced at full pace, and I touched the yellow grass. Was I the new Alice, did I look through, the looking glass? Too many mushrooms, maybe? It was magical, and I finally understood, I’m seeing it through your eyes! Not black and white, but a rainbow!

0

Jan 27

Jan 27, 2026 at 11:16 AM UTC

DatoreFargo

Purple Sky

You told me, the sky was blue, then one day, I looked up, and it wasn’t. It was a purple sky, made just for me, full of clouds, in shapes of giraffes, and lions, a bunny too! The world was different, but my heart the same, it raced at full pace, and I touched the yellow grass. Was I the new Alice, did I look through, the looking glass? Too many mushrooms, maybe? It was magical, and I finally understood, I’m seeing it through your eyes! Not black and white, but a rainbow!

25