Social media companies
Swear it's you they want to please
They badly want for you to see
That they value privacy
And that there are several strictures
On who can see your posts and pictures.

You think your profile is secure
You're satisfied until you hear
That they sell your information
To advertising corporations.

Every post that you've spent time on
pictures, videos you had your eye on
They save it all for using later
And say "It's ONLY metadata!"

They as good as have a list
Of content that you can't resist
And knowing full well what you like
With custom ads they duly strike!
They desperately want you to keep scrolling
So they can see the money roll in.
And their ethics will be forfeited
So advertisers can be profited.

When trying to chew your daily fodder
a mouth sore can be quite a bother.
You must make sure your teeth evade it
Lest you inflame and irritate it.

Often when you try to speak
It chafes against your pointed teeth
And causes such a searing pain
That seems to paralyse the brain.

And brushing your teeth is a dreaded chore;
The bristles could exacerbate the sore.
Unless you want to start and end your day wincing
You'd better stick to plain old rinsing.

You try to laugh at someone's jest
But manage a queasy grin at best.
Your face can handle limited expressions,
Mostly wearing a look of mild oppression.

Now, if you ask me, tea only has leverage
When it's sipped as a piping hot beverage.
Lukewarm, it tastes unappealing
But you can't have hot things when the ulcer is healing.

And what makes me even more miserable
Is that the time the darned thing takes to heal is considerable.
Meanwhile, I will just have to wait
And apply the choline salicylate.

He gets a text "Your such a bore"
The grammar **** replies with "*You're".

starting in the chest
sadness rises slowly, then
wells up from the eyes

the clock's three hands move
trace the same circular path
time is relentless

When attempting to write with paper and ink,
try as I might, I can't seem to think
of the things I've been meaning to write about
the way that I can when I'm typing them out.

A pen in my hand, I huff and I puff
as I try to come up with some read-worthy stuff.
But nothing inspires; the page is pristine:
I don't have this trouble when I'm facing a screen.

I've tried and I've tried but the words do not flow
till my hands feel the grid of the keyboard below.

Some things haven’t changed.
Your mother’s voice on the telephone asking if you’re eating well.
Your father telling you not to worry about the money and that he'll 'take care of it'.

But you’ve changed.

And where you'd once reply, carelessly arrogant,
“Why do you care?” and “I don’t need your help!”,
you now understand:
a gift of wisdom from the other people who never cared, never helped,
after you left to be with them.

And now, gently reassuring them,
you only smile into the phone
and ask about the weather.