My friend found another website,
That they want to try out.
They told me I should sign up,
I did it only to write with them.
I took me an hour just to post a poem.

First, read the terms and conditions,
48 bullet points of rules to follow,
Though I still don't know what's going on.
Second, check your email,
Find what Kevin sent you,
And set your password up.
Third, post a poem on your profile,
If you don't it doesn't work,
And you can't view other profiles.
Fourth, try and post a second poem,
Oops! You need to comment,
On at least two other poems.
Fifth, Your comment must be,
At least, 50 characters,
They won't even accept 49.

I'm good here,
It's less confusing.

Our land of stars and stripes, now glows,
with screens that flicker in hallowed halls.
Entranced humans shuffle, with eyes fixed below,
on small gadgets that have us enthralled.

Should the Statue of Liberty, our symbolic girl,
be holding a smartphone up to the world?
While tweets fly like eagles and hashtags swirl,
foreign disinformation trends as fast as it’s purled.

In lunch halls, real conversations take rest,
as influence is sought—in hoity-toity, binary quest.
Friends are backdrops—originality in short supply
as likes and shares make our dopamine fly.

America’s zombies, though ******* drained,
shuffle endlessly on, with Wi-Fi stimulated brains.
Once the land of the free, we’re now the land of tech
with minds wrecked by truths unchecked.

As we rock and sway—the new robot way—
will our old, analog-republic simply fade away?
.
.
Songs for this:
Airhead by Thomas Dolby
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_01.mp3

It's a blessing
I can do online school
Classes I can't take here
Classes I'm 'too young' to take
Helps me with college when there are no APs

Until it's a curse
When I can't do online school
Because the internet's bad
Things are late
Because they expect the internet to work

HELLO FRIEND!

I KNOW WE JUST MET
BUT
FOR [27.99] YOU CAN
BUY MY
FRESHLY GROWN
[SECRET TO HAPPINESS!1!]

what?
y-you don’t want my
[27.99 SECRET TO  HAPPINESS]?

BUT FRIEND! YOU'VE ONLY
JUST BEGUN TO
SCRATCH THE SURFACE
OF WHAT I CAN OFFER YOU

why do you close me
[FRIEND]?
I thought I told you that I could
make you [HAPPINESS FOR CHEAP]?
Why do you turn up your nose?

AH, I SEE NOW!
YOU ARE AFRAID THAT I MIGHT BE SELLING
{spiked} FAKE HAPPINESS!
DO NOT WORRY [FRIEND]
I WOULD {always} NEVER DECEIVE YOU
FOR A QUICK BUCK

HAHA
Ahahaha-

{This Popup has been blocked}
{Goodnight and stay safe, Friend}

Our needs are boundless -
our wounds sensitive -
better not to bare them
- lest we invite opinion,
debate and comparison,
or worse yet, sympathy (euuww).
.
.
Songs for this..
Musta Been A Ghost by Próxima Parada
Everything goes my way by Metronomy
If You’re Too shy (Let me know) - Edit by The 1975

I wish I could delete everything I’ve ever posted on the internet,
make myself disappear,
untraceable, unavailable, please try again another time,
I want to hit return and erase every text I’ve ever sent,
being invisible is safe, anonymity is freedom,
I want to fall out of cyberspace and into a black hole of pre recorded memories,
of times before we were attached to cords for validation,
so many perceptions of who I am create Frankenstein versions of me insinuated in the minds of others,
am I who I think I am or who you think I am?
manipulating wires became plugged into our brains and we forgot what we looked like in the mirror,
I want to know what I really think of me,
not what I was groomed into seeing
from years of comparisons that will never be enough,
I want to log myself out from the internet and act like I just logged in,
to what life would’ve been without it

it’s only i get a little scratchy across my shins at 1:33
forehead against work desk
leant down to run a track on my legs
phone untouched, shortcuts retraced
HTT ..PS//
ishouldntcheckyoursocials.      us.

couldn’t make me an addict of loss
which really is the untapped potential
for the future internet of things
safari, waystone.
safari, favourer of webpage rerunners,
safari, guide me back to a bookmarked
cliff-edge of ache.

cookies know me better than my housemate who’s sweetness blocked his accounts before something broke and we’d have to talk about it.

once the whiter lines appear on shinskin like my algorithm
I can sit back up
if not satiated at least appeased
the sound my lungs make isn’t really laughing or crying but
a wheeze.