The screen in my hand is comfort
A quick shot of dopamine
Colors, textures, smiles, people to see
Each scroll is not enough
I keep going til I feel seen
A broken form of therapy
Easy relief from my thoughts and dreams
But it leaves me like a hangover
Discontent, dizzy, exhausted
An even deeper sense of being unseen
Why do I leave my Father on read?
Is it shame, laziness, a desire to stay dead
All of these, yes, but deeper still
My fear of what’s under the hood
Knowledge that I’m really no good
My Father says child, I know
I know who you are and will be
There’s nothing you can say
That will shake the love out of me
Please just talk to me.