Blue-Lit Abyss: How Do I Use Social Media? #poetry

I open the app like peeling a fruitless orange,
half-expecting a notification to whisper, “You matter.”
But you—
you scroll with the fervor of a gambler
pulling on slot machines with sunburned thumbs.
You believe every reel is real
and every like
a digitized pat on the shoulder from a stranger you'll never meet.

He posted a photo of his dinner—
chickpeas artfully drowned in avocado aspirations—
and the world paused to applaud.
#VeganBliss #Blessed

Meanwhile,
another woman, faceless,
writes, "I don’t think I can make it to tomorrow,"
but the algorithm was more interested
in a dog dancing to Beyoncé.
(The crowd goes wild.)

I once posted a poem.
It got 3 likes.
One was my alt account.
The second was a bot offering graphic design services.
The third—
maybe the third was a real person.
But they never commented.
So perhaps I never existed.

You, bold curator of borrowed opinions,
retweet rage with a side of passive indignation.
You tag brands demanding justice
because the fries were cold—
justice, mind you—
while Gaza burns in hashtags
and memes serve as protest banners
folded in pixels.

She smiles in every story,
face filtered to the geometry of artificial goddesshood.
Inside her ribcage, a hollowness scrolls too—
not Instagram,
but the void
with sponsored ads.

He unfriended his father.
Politics.
Or was it the meme about cows and communism?
Hard to tell.
Cows don’t moo in binary.

You ask me,
How do I use social media?
Like a knife, mostly.
Sometimes a spoon.
Depends on the meal.

I met a girl in a comment thread once.
We debated Nietzsche and memes.
Now we exchange playlists
of songs that sound like the color grey.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s AI.
Sometimes I wonder if I am.

You follow 893 people,
but can’t name five you’d trust to hold your grief.

She went viral once.
Because her trauma rhymed.
A trauma that got monetized—
ads mid-video,
cue violins.
Like & Subscribe for healing.

I love how you post quotes,
by Rumi and RuPaul,
right after stalking your ex’s new girlfriend
for the fifth time.
You are the algorithm's dream—
a beautifully conflicted click-factory.

He posted a selfie with a sunset.
Caption: “Healing.”
But last week he tried to delete himself
in a DM no one opened in time.

There is no edit button for what you meant to say.
There is no filter for authenticity,
though influencers sell it in jars labeled “Raw.”

You once asked, Do you think people care?
No, but the heart button makes a good liar.

I use social media to build castles
on the shores of disconnection.
It’s a lovely place to scream
when nobody’s listening
except people who click “relatable.”

He watched a tutorial
on how to smile like a CEO.
Practiced in his bathroom mirror,
lip-syncing charisma.
Now he hosts webinars
on “How to Be Human Online.”

Sometimes I deactivate,
and for 48 hours,
I feel like I’ve been unplugged from the Matrix.
Until FOMO taps on my shoulder
and I go back,
like an addict with a ring notification
from a ghost.

She posts her child’s first steps
while someone else posts the child
they lost to war.
We heart both.
It’s what empathy looks like in Helvetica.

You say social media connects us.
Yes.
Like glue.
That binds and suffocates.
That fixes and fossilizes.
Connection or captivity—
depends on the dosage.

He got a job through LinkedIn.
She got stalked through Facebook.
They fell in love on Bumble.
You fell apart on Twitter.
I lost myself in the comments section
of a stranger’s grief.

One day,
a man wrote, "I don't know who to be anymore."
Another replied, "Same."
They followed each other.
They’ve never spoken since.
That counts as closure now.

I once asked an AI,
"How do I use social media?"
It answered:
“To prove you exist. To disappear. To be loved. To be lost.”

You screenshot poems
but never write one.
That’s okay.
You’re curating a museum of borrowed emotion.
Tickets are free.
Just like you.

She danced on TikTok
with bruises hidden by ring lights.
He made a thread of jokes
an hour after losing his job.
We scroll past both
because our feeds are rivers
and empathy is a stone
skipped twice before sinking.

Sometimes I post
because I want to remember what I felt.
Sometimes I post
because I’m scared no one will notice I’m gone.

You refresh your likes
like a pulse monitor.
I refresh mine
like I’m waiting for someone to whisper,
"I see you."

He went live.
And died in real-time.
The comments said, “Fake.”
Then, “OMG.”
Then, “Fly high, king.”

The app didn’t even buffer.

And yet—
a woman posted she was lonely.
Six strangers DMed her poetry.
One sent her soup via UberEats.
She cried.
Not because she was saved,
but because someone noticed the storm
before the flood.

So how do I use social media?

I use it like a prayer—
sometimes whispered,
sometimes screamed,
sometimes deleted before sending.

You use it like a mirror—
until you forget which reflection is real.

They use it like a god—
demanding sacrifice
and trending penance.

And just when we all
start sinking into this blue-lit abyss,
just when every feed becomes
an echo of an echo
of a scream—

I log out...

...and hand a stranger
a handwritten letter.

(He reads it.
And smiles.)

No hashtags necessary.

#SocialMediaPoetry #DigitalDilemma #OnlineIdentity #ScrollCulture #EmpathyInPixels #MentalHealthMatters #PoetryOfNow #DisconnectedConnection #ScreensAndSouls