Met a ******* 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 ******* 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

Stop setting yourself on fire for people who will sit back and watch you burn.

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