Phon(e)y

We’re phonies when we’re on the phone,

To hide from the fact that we’re painfully alone,

Feeling as though we’re liked and popular—

But when it comes to making real friends, we demur,

Preferring the cover of a screen,

From which we cannot hope to ourselves wean,

Holding it close, as if our heart,

Foolish to think we could from it depart

Like a child dependent on a parent,

Our attachment to our devices is apparent:

As a toddler’s reluctant to let go,

So we constantly bring our phones in tow,

Fearing what others might of us think,

Causing us to incessantly blink

On others, we want to ourselves impress,

More often than not calling for redress,

Hoping that, as a result, they don’t like us less

For we’re concerned, foremost, with appearance,

Which thenceforth our personality tints,

And paranoia about whether it stints

By applying stereotypes,

Beneath which, like tight clothing, it gripes,

A suave saboteur who our chances snipes;

Creating for the other his own narrative,

As if to prevent him from having ever lived,

Making us his historiographer, repressive

To superficial surfaces we’re thus subject,

Wherefore the lot of us are left deject,

And we our prospects betimes reject