Not Instagram’s Fault

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From one good day to a bad one the next, I fall,

Thought quitting the scroll would fix it all.

I silenced the pings, the filters, the feed,

But somehow I’m worse, not even remotely freed.

I swapped reels for prompts and news,

And still I’m here, continuing to lose.

I burrow through LinkedIn, hollow-eyed,

The future looks bleak—no place to hide.

Each search takes me far from peace,

The spiral won’t cease.

Analysis locks me in this shell,

Where every thought becomes a living cell.

My worth feels lost beneath the load,

A shadow on a lonesome road.

All my work, it fades to grey,

Why even try when it just won’t stay?

The truth is loud but hard to see

The problem is not the app, it’s me.

Yes, I’m terrified of life ahead,

The fear of dying poor and dead.

Confidence—I’d say— is just a myth,

A dream I’ve never been able to walk with.

Who am I without applause?

A mess of doubts, a string of flaws.

From home to friend, I lose, I drift,

As days collapse and shadows shift.

I feel too slow, the world’s too fast,

And I’m always outpaced, always last.

The age we live in moves like fire,

And I’m stuck beneath the wire.

Is it true the slow get left behind?

That peace is only for the bold and blind?

I’m scared, unsure of what I’ve sought—

But deep down, I know:

It’s not Instagram’s fault.

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