My Excuse

I scroll on to the next post on Instagram, the ten hundredth time that day,
I don't know what I'm looking for but I'm sure this isn’t the way
To find it.
I’m itching to get up, to run, to lie in a bed of wilting, overwatered green grass.
But I sit in my bed still, scrolling through Instagram.
I know I should do homework, I should get it done so that
I can write.
But homework won’t give me what I’m looking for.
Neither will this, I tell myself, and I know I’m right.
But the system goes:
Do homework
Procrastinate doing homework
Scroll through Instagram searching to fill an unfillable void- at least not this way
Do a bit of homework
Procrastinate some more.
Remember that I love to write, that I should be writing,
Only writing.
But remember, I am just a kid, powerless to the system, powerless to the school that is truthfully a prison.
I make up excuses.
I am not the author of my existence.
My teacher asked me, are you an author, a writer, like your brother?
I said no, I am not a writer, I am not an author.
I trick myself into believing
My self.
I don’t write, I can’t write, I am not a writer nor an author,
Not of a book,
Or a poem,
Or a life
I scroll.