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.

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 wake with a quiet ache,
scrolling to our thread,
your name still there,
but silent.

Still, I send a message,
something small,
as if it might stir you
through the silence.

I picture your reply,
how you'd type and pause,
then send a heart,
or something silly,
just to make me smile.

Late nights were our ritual,
voice notes at 2 AM,
arguing over latest movies,
sharing dreams,
too fragile to say out loud,
except with each other.

The world spun with just us in it,
so selfish,
we never needed another.
We joked that anyone else
would steal our thunder,
dim the glow we found
in each other’s laughter

Days pass like drifting leaves.
I tell myself you're busy,
or resting,
or just forgot to reply.
And then,
the words I never wanted to hear,
you’re gone.

Gone,
while I was still waiting
for the next story,
the next laugh,
the next moment
with you.

Now our memories
live in unread messages,
and I’m still here,
talking to the past,
hoping it hears me.

Written by Micko.
All rights reserved.
30.April.2025.©️

They unearthed me like a secret they couldn’t bear to keep, unready, unwilling.
As I stood there, bare-souled,
Like love was a crime to confess.
words trembling on my tongue.
I whispered, “I’m human. I feel. Be gentle.”
But my plea dissolved in the silence.

They looked through me,
not as kin, not as blood,
but as something broken,
a stranger,a sinner,a shame.
So I unhooked my heart,
learned to float through the ache,

Years of silence,
Wrapped in cold shoulders.
Now they ask:
"Why don’t you call?"
"Why don’t you text?"
Strange, isn't it?
How absence echoes louder-
than presence ever did.

And still,
I carry on,
not untouched,
but unbroken.

Written by Micko
©️1.05.2025.All rights reserved.

Each day, I wake as though it’s my last.
Breath held gentle, shadows cast.
No sudden steps, no need to rush.
My soul stands half-stitched to this earth,
afraid to leave before it’s whole.

And when the night begins to break,
And silence draws across the ache,
Just longing for a little grace.
To leave no mess, no word unsaid.
I kneel  beside my bed and pray...

God, if it’s Your wish,
Let me live to see the next day,
not to escape death,
but to finish what life began in me.
But if I must, my soul You keep,
For I have lived, and I have loved.

And so I wait, both still and brave,
A quiet prayer in each wave.
Because living, for me, is a sacred thing
a wish come true in a trembling place.
Just hoping to rise to one more day.


Written by Micko.
©️ 3.05.2025