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Tinder, for fire, not for dates.
by Artur DesruisseauxShe was alright, if you liked them big,
her hips were twice the size of mine.
She gambled, drank and ate Buffalo wings.
I felt disgusted.
She had a house in the hills,
expensive automobiles,
multiple degrees, from private colleges I couldn't get a job,
picking up trash.
Dated only writers, she sad.
She wrote and drank and farted.
Her stories were awful, obvious, pretentious.
Her problem was she loved life.
She would never write anything, ever.
That night I got drunk and started laughing,
maybe I should at least try. 06/14/2014 Posted on 06/14/2014
Copyright © 2026 Artur Desruisseaux
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 06/16/14 at 12:52 PM lovely tale and I can see why loving life would be a problem, particularly when the love is unrequited. |
| Posted by David Maurice on 07/05/14 at 03:37 PM great read, this was really well done, 'Dates only writers she sad', is that said? otherwise, I loved this. |
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