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So Crazy, yet my reasons why left hazy.
I know me, “Days he speaks words so lazy.”
I know me “Ways he flow ain’t as elegant as no daisy.”
Life is phasy, phasing from wrongly known to knowing to write.
I need to be right, these fists are flying and dying to know who to fight.
I need to be set alight to be seen, attracted by spectacle buy tickets to me crying.
Though I’m spying on success to see if it’s alright, it looks pale and drying.
Trying to know when this frying of skin is vying for success not lying to my pen and time buying.
Pride is prying to know when I’m up in flames but that’s anybody’s guess.
I’m in the paper, but hated by the press. Print me a teen that could have been.

Baby, I think of you on the daily, my morals ain’t shady but body shaky.
Hair so wavy such a lady I think that maybe our life could be easy lately.
I need to be loved, it bites, such blight on my minds white light.
It’s a delight, though lack of foresight. Despite my flames do ignite my gravestone.
I’m complying to them but applying to beat them supplying my unfair life undying.
I’m just edifying on etiquette. Clarifying on Clarity. Fortifying my new fortune.
Success is mystifying but horrifying up close and oh does it feel gratifying!
Acknowledge me be, stress leads to a field day for that same press.
Assess the attention, Address the Advice, Repress wrongly found success.
Somewhat clean, sometimes mean, On Results I never fall but I always lean.
Need not consult the occult on how to be an adult. I need to be in a winners Catapult.

I need Attention. I need love, Not to mention, No more doves.
A Poem I wrote during my relationship, but more about my striving for success. Uses a lot of rhymes within the lines. I was inspired by the rhymes and syllable uses of this by Biggie Smalls, the rap legend.
the night----cold;
we rented a room;
in a deserted place i failed to relume;
as long as you'd craddle me by the gloom;
lend me the warmth of the dawn;
then i'm down.
caterpillars in cocoons
cling to tobacco leaves
chopped to fill cigarettes
...and a butterfly grieves

smoking insects
fried green caterpillars
go ahead strike a match
inhale the bug part fillers

exhale wings and flick the ash...
will an extinction of kaleidoscopes
be the aftermath?
many insects take residence in tobacco fields...
did you cook a cricket today?
dressed to mask this scowl
painted it bubblegum pink

poured my three finger shot
of 100 proof rotgut to drink,

no ice for a chaser required
as all my inhibitions shrink

naughtiness envelopes me
willpower slips off the brink

my sights set, the target you,
you shall be mine with a wink

in the armor that you sport
feel me slide passed a *****

craving the heat of ***** flesh
races pulse, stimulation in sync

resistance is futile, ***** the rules
time to feel with no time to think
now to crush a pesky conscience...
Panda 12h
I know the process
Doesn’t make it easier
It starts off with shock
Then leads to red anger
I’ll bargain for peace
Till I sink to depression
And hopefully by the end
I’ll have found some acceptance
I know the process
Doesn’t make it easier
I still feel the sharp pain
Since life's been taken from her
Maya Minion died 1/17/2019 at 3 years old. It hurts, she was still a baby.
Center of the corridor
Sits a seat
One for those with immeasurable feats
It sits above the third floor

It is old and rusty
Wrinkled and dusty
He who rules from his Iron throne
Shall forever hear the ominous drone
Accompanied by sleepless nights
And dastardly fights

A king must be strong
Mentally ready to bear
Burdens of the chair
Must be able to right the wrong

He must Love, be feared
If these requirements have been cleared
He may sit in this throne
And call this place his home
Satan's consigliere,
Immoral-contrary, the '******' in Mary,
The 'chaos' in theory, the gassed-out canary-
Imperious, ******* nefarious; battle-weary,
Serious schism like Arius' controversy,
Offer no quarter, devoid of the sense of mercy,
Drink when I'm thirsty
The blood like wine and I dine on the swine I enchanted, like Circe.
Some random verse....
There was a Winter’s chill
But we still had fun
Sledding down the hill
In the clear Winter sun

It was a cold day of play
Mittens stuck to the sleds
A frantic snowball fray
With woolen caps on our heads

And we all slipped and slid
Never really knowing
How great it was being a kid
In our yard, as it was snowing

But then as we grew older
Winter never seemed the same
Each year grew a little colder
Reliving our childhood game

By Kirke Wise

The first publication of this poem was in the Winter 2019 edition of The Watershed Journal
Just a little poem to help me capture and remember some of those winter moments in the back yard so long ago.
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