The web can sting, with venom loud,
a shifting, faceless, restless crowd.
But sharper still, the words at home,
cut deeper than the ones that roam.
A screen can burn, then fade away,
its echoes die within a day.
Yet voices close, with every breath,
can bruise the soul, can seed a death.
The net is cruel, but it forgets,
your parents' spite still leaves regrets.
A child grows heavy, bearing scars,
more toxic than the web’s bright stars.