Met a girl on Tinder,
fck it we’re all Winners,
not thirsty but I’m starvin’,
so baby tell me what’s for dinner,
what’s in the oven where’s the lovin’,
give it all to me raw no apologies no filter,
it’s V-Day I’m as depressed as I am on my B-Day,
still giving you raw lines uncut with no filler,
and yeah Love gives life,
but she’s also a killer,
stupid Cupid’s got me dreaming lucid,
still I feel salty as a Biblical pillar,
like Lot’s wife in that one verse,
in Genesis 19,
yeah I guess lots is how much love hurts,
get healed then hurt again,
kinda like my life on Tinder,
swipe left swipe left swipe right,
kinda like Duck Duck Goose or Musical Chairs,
not looking for a lifetime just looking for a night,
a temporary solution to a permanent problem,
some foreign aid in the form of a band-aid on my bleeding heart,
can’t fix the problem but sure can relief the symptoms,
at least for the night when we forget this earth and get lost in the stars,
so I’m searching,
swiping on that Tinder app,
hoping to find true love,
or at least something that resembles that,
because my hearts got some holes,
and I’m hoping someone can fill them,
like my souls got some demons,
and I’m hoping someone can **** them,
what’s happened to society,
and how’d we all get so lonely,
especially in the age of social networking,
everything seems superficial even this poem feels phony,
like when I get liked on Tinder,
and I reply with “We matched want to meet up”,
and I pretend I’m fine with no worries,
when really I’m feeling totally beat up,
Jesus,
don’t know if I can come step back from this ledge,
feeling frozen paralyzed like a bad app,
when you can’t scroll so you just refresh,
and get a whole new lists or prospects,
a whole new set of potential matches,
another chance to build something grand,
out of the burned past and all it’s ashes,
and that’s when,
I come back to the present,
now where were we oh yeah,
it was Valentine’s Day and I was on Tinder again…
Met a girl on Tinder,
fck it we’re all Winners,
not thirsty but I’m starvin’,
so baby tell me what’s for dinner,
what’s in the oven where’s the lovin’,
give it all to me raw no apologies no filter,
it’s V-Day I’m as depressed as I am on my B-Day,
still giving you raw lines uncut with no filler…
∆ LaLux ∆
The New Book Is FREE Here: https://www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
In the darkest of nights
Your body pressed against the wall
Hands held high above
Let me slide my hands down your body
To feel every sensual curve
Let me kiss you as if it were the last time I were able
Sliding my tongue softly against your lips
Let me kiss your neck softly in this night
Sliding my tongue up your neck upon your ear
Down further to explore your body. Tearing off one piece of clothing as a am to uncover what my tongue seeks Watch me as I kiss down your bare body
Watch me as I spread your legs and slide between.
Watch me tear your underwear off
Let me slide my velvet tongue
Watch me explore your insides
Until I find the path that brings you to your limitations
Watch me climb up your body kissing every inch with wet lips
Kiss me so you taste what your inner being is
Open your legs and wrap them around my waist
Pull me closer so our bodies may collide
Pull me deeper so I may further explore your inner being
My hips bucking
Yours following in motion
This pleasure we share
In my life's fantasy.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
Stop setting yourself on fire for people who will sit back and watch you burn.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
At age 7, I was guilty
when I accepted an invitation
to go into the apartment of a neighbor
He smelled of beer as he groped me.
At age 10, I was guilty
when I walked home too late
because I missed the train
He popped out of the bushes
exposing himself.
At age 12, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
tongue into my mouth
because I could not
get away.
At age 14, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
me to sit on his lap
while in my bathing suit
and I ran away from home.
At age 16, I was guilty
when my uncle convinced
everyone that I was a liar
and I quit school.
At age 18, I was guilty
when I gave birth to
my first child,
because I was ignorant.
At age 20, I was guilty
when I saw the cardiologist
in the reflection of a lamp
************ and the
police laughed at my report.
At age 30, I was guilty
when my employer
trapped me in the elevator
to ***** me, because I
was his subserviant.
At age 36, I was guilty
when I earned jujitsu honors
but risked going to jail
for defending myself.
At age 70, I was guilty
when a neighbor brought
me fruit and grabbed my
breast, because I was alone.
At age 72, I am guilty
of being a ferule woman
for 50 years and for
NOT be silent!
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
They call us survivors
I call us leftovers
They tell us we're heroes and deserve better than the hand life dealt us.
They use us as examples of inspiration and make shiny metaphors out of our trauma.
But.
But they never look at you long enough to see that you flinch when they reach, with greedy hands, towards you because to look at you too long would mean seeing the hand wrapped around your throat.
They are never around long enough to know that panic sets in while you shower and scrub at your skin until it's raw and bruised.
Sticking around would mean knowing that you were touched by Poison Ivy and they've heard it's contagious!
They don't watch when you're seventeen and crying into his shoulder, asking him to tell you he loves you, just so you can sleep because that would mean that maybe..you aren't that heroic afterall.
If they got too close they would see that you aren't surviving so much as submitting to being alive.
They sit on the edge of their seats gobbling up details about your so-called courageous story, eating up the nitty-gritty details because they know it will end in some form of you rises from the ashes.
But YOU didn't know that you'd be rising from the ashes when he was lighting his match.
When you tell them, you're still in therapy learning to breathe and count to ten, they have to realize bandaids don't fix gaping wounds, so they stop listening, notice the crows feet and crooked teeth, and turn away because suddenly...you look like a victim
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
Night.
In my mind, night symbolizes bad things
Dead as night,
Things go bump in the night,
Missing each other like ships in the night,
Thieves in the night,
“A one-night stand?”
Lady of the night,
“Oh my God! How can you sleep at night?”
It is universally known that monsters come out at night
They lurk in the closets of kids everywhere
But closet monsters with their reaching claws, twelve eyes, four arms,
And purple fur aren’t as scary as you.
In the dark corner of my room by the lamp that was my mom’s
When she was growing up
Did you put your hands on her, too?
I look up and
Coming towards me
a gangrene riddled zombie
Arms outstretched, a child whining for candy
Hot mouth on my skin, saliva in my face
Tongue like tentacles wrapping around me and
I fall into that dark, unfeeling place
Night is when bad things happen to good people
When too-young children lose their too-young innocence,
I try to explain to my mom the things you did
Why I’m chasing light
She says I’m lying because you’re her father
She knows you, and you wouldn’t do that to her
I tell her it was night-time she says,
“Maybe it was too dark to see who it was.”
“It wasn’t, mom!” I scream.
Hot pokers in the form of hot tears sear my red cheeks
When she turns away from me
It was dark, that night
But not so dark that I didn’t know you that night,
That night when you took me and crushed me
And I didn’t have a choice.
But it was you.
A gangrene zombie hiding in dark corners of my bedroom.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
"I made a product for men"
My Father's words resonated in my head
What did he mean by "product"?
My seven year old mind
tried to put it together
like a puzzle
I couldn't quite put the pieces together
I left my father's words
scattered on the floor that day
Ten years later
you crawled out of the darkness into my soul
you took my dignity that night and
my mind couldn't help but drift
to the grocery store
ten years back
where my father told the cashier
that he had made a "product" for men
The seven year old me
picked up the words
my father spit out,
not knowing what they would
one day do to his little girl
I put them together
each piece fit perfectly
I knew exactly what my father meant by "product" now
"Product"
that's precisely what I was to you
something to be used
for your satisfaction
I was to be submissive
to the male
"dont disappoint him"
I was held captive
in my own body
a body that was now in your possession
you used me carelessly
left me dry
without life
nothing could be planted in me and flourish anymore
Somehow what you did to me
was acceptable
what you made me do
over and over again
until it was ideal for you
was acceptable
I am a product
that is what I was made to do
I was meant to be used by you
over and over again
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 3:24 AM UTC
Conceiving you felt like death.
Slowly drowning in despair.
The pressure rising to my head.
Only in my womb for a month,
Longing for a mother
That wasn’t actually there
I heard you crying in anguish
It mocked me continuously,
You felt contaminating.
I sank to the bottom,
Laying there, lungs filled, bursting in pain
A dark presence swept over me.
There are a million ways to bleed and
You were gutted out whole
No sea water but my own tears.
She took you from me.
Or
Did I take you away from myself?
Regret and
Heartache
Paralyzed me
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC