I type my poetry

which is a damn 

shame really. 

It’s a sin.

I should 

write in the journal 

I stole, 

making the best out 

of it, but I type my poems 

on my bed 

lying on my back, 

pretending to not look 

like an idiot doing so,

 

but I digress 

 

While I was on my phone

before I wrote this poem,

I saw a sight 

on my screen 

that’s been edging my nerves 

and slowly breaking my heart; 

A friend, or more of a 

colleague now, 

breaks up with his girl, 

a pretty one too, a girl I’ve 

known forever

 

He doesn’t post how he feels 

no heart broken boy does, 

but his account was silent before; 

now I see a post everyday 

a picture of a pie,

a meme,

a picture of a show, 

him doing practically anything, 

and it’s sadder than any letter of

love unrequited, or any 

romantic tragedy of old,

since he’s hiding it 

behind the now-frequent 

pictures of plates of food, 

the empty passenger seat of his car,

him with his family, 

and behind that vibrant picture

is the loneliest soul I know, 

I feel him begging through 

my soot-covered phone screen, 

the knowledge of her seeing his 

posts keeping him from melting 

into the deep, dark, magma of emotions 

below 

 

My room has gotten dark, 

I’m left with wondering what cruelty 

my childhood friend could’ve done 

to this poor boy; 

not enough to sink him 

but not lightly enough for him to steer away from the coming storm.