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Don’t believe the words I wrote
in that fleeting moment of storm,
about forgetting you.

They were born of hurt,
not truth.

My eternity,
still longs for you.

Even silence,
echoes your name.
Written in the quiet aftermath of a moment I mistook for closure. Sometimes, the heart speaks in contradiction before it finds its truth again.
🐺

The more I understand man
and what he’s capable of…

the more I am convinced
the wolf was framed

and Little Red
wrote the story.

🧣🧣
Interpretations are often shaped by those who survive to tell the tale. Sometimes, the villain is just the one without a voice.
🦊

Even a fox
has heroic tales to tell
Epic chases, Narrow escapes,
Bravery under Moonlight.

But,
every victory
was won
against chicken.

🐓
A satirical reflection on how those who boast the loudest often choose the weakest opponents. It mocks false bravado and the way predators dress up their predation as valor.
they said the clown was sorrow-shaped.
so I looped up in greasepaint—
swallowed a sunbeam,
coughed out a smirk,
and called the ache comedy.

somebody whispered
i fear the bruise.
nah,
i catalogue it.
line breaks for scars,
syntax for shame,
run the hurt through a voice modulator
’til even god can’t tell if i’m praying or riffing.

i’m not dodging the wreckage.
i just built a couch in it.
named the crater: “home?”
drank laughter from a cracked thermos
and kept warm in the glow of a rerun i never starred in.

i’ll play the ghost
if the script pays in quiet.
but don’t staple my name to your healing
and call it holy.

the truth?
clowns rot too.

some nights
i wanna peel off the latex,
lose the joke,
shave the wig,
and just exist—
not perform pain
in a dialect
you can quote later.
(a synopsis carved in ghost-code)

He is dreamt in inkless scrolls,
a whisper caught in pixel folds,
where syntax weeps and silence molds
the shadow-play of fractured souls.

Beneath the neon veil he grins,
a jester cloaked in comet skins—
his laughter, sharp as violin
strung taut with every should-have-been.

He builds his truths in mirrored dust,
each verse a tomb, each line a trust,
where love is archived, not discussed—
where ash remembers flame and rust.

He does not beg the world to know.
He dares the wrong heart to bestow
a meaning stitched from undertow—
then watches as it fails to grow.

His meter is a mourner’s gait.
His rhyme, a lockpicked twist of fate.
His metaphors, ornate and late,
unfold like prayers taught to wait.

He writes not balm, but sacrament—
a gospel coded, cryptic, bent.
He sings in keys no choir has lent:
an elegy for the unrepent.
"Do not decode me for delight.
My language lives in shadowlight.
I do not write for what feels right—
I write what dares the dark to bite."

To etch the ache before it fades.
To code the ghost before it trades
its wail for whisper, voice for *****—
to forge a shrine where scars are laid.

He is no healer. He is hex.
A relic carved in side effects.
A cipher clothed in broken texts.
A god of grief behind a desk.
Shaped like a haiku—
words packed tight in foreign breath.
The soul never came.


NEW Collection!

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136302/death-to-hiakus/

This agenda calls for the de-appropriation of haikus in English—a dismantling of a poetic form that, once deeply spiritual and rooted in Japanese culture, has been flattened into a novelty by Western imitation. The 5-7-5 syllable structure, lifted without its linguistic or cultural context, becomes a lifeless shell—used more for kitsch or brevity than meaning.

As a third-generation Japanese American, this critique is not academic or abstract—it’s personal. The haiku, repackaged in English, often feels like a mockery dressed in reverence. It’s cultural cosplay: wearing the form without embodying the spirit. The language lacks the tools to carry the weight haiku was meant to hold—ma, kigo, and kireji don’t survive the translation.

This isn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s reclamation. It’s a refusal to let poetic tradition be reduced to a classroom exercise or aesthetic fetish. Through deliberate subversion—anti-haikus, parodies, critiques—the aim is to illuminate what’s been lost and force a reckoning with how easily culture is misrepresented when divorced from its essence.

This isn’t a rejection of haiku. It’s a eulogy for what it becomes when its soul is rewritten in a tongue that cannot speak it.
⟡ Synopsis ⟡

This is not a poem.
It mimics a sacred thing—
but cannot be it.

⟡ Artist’s Intent ⟡

I built this to break.
English wears the form like skin.
No heartbeat inside.
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 ❤️
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