I sit in the glow of my phone.
The light is pale against my face,
like early morning that never warms.
My poem rests on the screen,
small, fragile, waiting.
I tell myself
I will not check again.
But my thumb moves anyway,
pulling the page down,
like I am drawing water from a well
that never fills.
Numbers flicker:
one heart,
two,
then nothing.
I stare at it too long,
as if it might grow
if I watch closely enough;
as if it knows
I am here.
Somewhere out there,
people are laughing,
talking,
living.
And I am here,
counting.
I used to write on paper.
Ink soaking into the page,
slow, permanent.
No one could measure it;
no one could touch it,
except me.
Now everything feels borrowed,
like I have to earn the right
to call my words good.
I think about the people
I want to reach:
not everyone,
just the ones
who would read my lines twice,
who would pause,
who would feel something settle
quietly inside their chest.
But instead,
I hold my poem up
to a passing crowd,
and wait
for them to tell me
if it matters.
I hate that I do this.
Hate the way I refresh,
again,
again,
like scratching at a door
that does not open.
My words were never meant
to stand under bright lights.
They were meant
to sit beside someone,
in the quiet,
to be found,
not forced.
So I close the site.
Set the phone face down,
like covering a mirror.
And for a moment,
it is just me,
and the poem.
And it is enough.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 12:38 PM UTC
I sit in the glow of my phone.
The light is pale against my face,
like early morning that never warms.
My poem rests on the screen,
small, fragile, waiting.
I tell myself
I will not check again.
But my thumb moves anyway,
pulling the page down,
like I am drawing water from a well
that never fills.
Numbers flicker:
one heart,
two,
then nothing.
I stare at it too long,
as if it might grow
if I watch closely enough;
as if it knows
I am here.
Somewhere out there,
people are laughing,
talking,
living.
And I am here,
counting.
I used to write on paper.
Ink soaking into the page,
slow, permanent.
No one could measure it;
no one could touch it,
except me.
Now everything feels borrowed,
like I have to earn the right
to call my words good.
I think about the people
I want to reach:
not everyone,
just the ones
who would read my lines twice,
who would pause,
who would feel something settle
quietly inside their chest.
But instead,
I hold my poem up
to a passing crowd,
and wait
for them to tell me
if it matters.
I hate that I do this.
Hate the way I refresh,
again,
again,
like scratching at a door
that does not open.
My words were never meant
to stand under bright lights.
They were meant
to sit beside someone,
in the quiet,
to be found,
not forced.
So I close the site.
Set the phone face down,
like covering a mirror.
And for a moment,
it is just me,
and the poem.
And it is enough.
I wrote this poem because I keep noticing how much I check for likes and shares when I post my work. I love writing, but sometimes I catch myself wanting everyone to see it instead of just the people who connect with it. Social media has changed the way I see things. The more I chase attention, the less I enjoy my own work. Writing should make me feel alive, but lately it’s been frustrating. This poem is me putting those feelings into words, and reminding myself why I write in the first place.
