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The idle habit slowly begins to consume my life

I scroll until my thumb cramps,
until my pinky aches from supporting my phone.

I scroll until
my wrist is in pain, until
my fore & middle fingers are numb.

Minutes, hours, days pass.
I scroll on.
See repeated information.

I can’t sleep so I grab my phone.
Gotta check Facebook.
Gotta check for validation.
Gotta confirm that everyone’s life is better than mine.

The envy it breeds is unbearable, but I’m hooked.

My picture got 49 likes, I’m artsy.
My status started a discussion, I’m an intellectual
Sandra is in Greece? I hate her.
Stephanie’s picture got 53 likes, I must not be as good as her.

Constantly, constantly measuring myself
against the fake bits of others’ lives.
The shiny, polished status updates.

I scroll on.

I scroll to the exclusions of reading a book.

I scroll to the exclusion of completing my homework.

I scroll so often and for so long the only time I can write this poem is @ 2AM
when my lover, Facebook,
has gone to sleep for the night.

And still, as the ink of my strange multipurpose pen-tool
fills the lined paper between my simple black journal,
the urge remains.

It’s as if, if I scroll far
enough I can erase the memory of anything bad
or, fast forward to a brighter future.

One where we again talk face-to-face
Where we care for our neighbors more than we fear them
Where words are the solution, not guns.

But honestly, at this rate, in light of Crimea, Israel-Palestine,
black-on-black crime,
(rape and homophobia)
at this rate, I’ll be scrolling forever.

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