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 ❤️

I can’t help ponder,
the essence of time,
For once time goes,
It is forever gone.

The time I’ve used to write this,
cannot be given back,
Me, the one in control of myself,
can only take time away from myself.

I don’t get to add it.
I can’t change it.

I do know I won’t waste my short term here,
doing nothing of some worth.

In the meadow she did lay,
Frozen in her own decay,
Broken by her day and age,
She was made a display.
Once wild and free,
Now made to stay,
Cracks in her heart,
She was made to be seen.
In her mind,
She was cold,
Colors washed,
No longer bold.
She is me,
I am her,
Our reflections blurred.
One day light will shine,
One day free in mind.
Till then she’ll lay in dirt,
An image of one’s wrongful mirth.

Once a pain
Now a love,
Once ignored,
Now unforgotten.
Sun came out,
I was enlightened.
Words flowed through,
my fingertips,
typing into poems.
I could talk through some words,
None would probably judge it.

She had layne,
He was pained.
She gave glares,
Him in snares.
Her love gone,
His was chains.
One moved on,
Another stayed.

Though she left,
He’d wait on her.
One day she’d return.

Pity me,
Pity me not.
A simple game,
Is all I've got.

Will you find woe in my struggle?
Or is everything I juggle,
Part of normal life for a muggle.

Where's the magic I've heard of,
Silent midnights full of love,
A siren's seductive song.

Searching for it,
I end up crashing,
Shored upon the rocks.