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King Bacon Oct 2014
Hey yo!
From that valley
but i haven’t seen the sunset
not playing,
I got game that could make a nun wet.
Pump that!
Art in my veins
at the bottom but i'm the hottest
so call me the blue part of the flame!
man in college I changed,
Remember first stepping on the soil
I was an innocent boy
Extra ****** like an olive oil
Gave my brain to a half Asian
amazing
gave it back now i’m finally graduating
Yo i’m a raider
no greater
than your average hater
He gave me a hand, the brokest!
I had a better chance getting cake in Hostess
Focus!
bacon, stop losing it
here’s the ball
and there’s the net
homies keep asking me why I ain’t made it yet,
I plan my moves so carefully like it’s a game of chess
This is my leap year no more taking baby steps.
Michael Kelly Nov 2018
I saw the writing on the wall, forever slow upon the draw
Its just the beginning- the beauty of infancy,
celebrating the baby’s first steps.
At times I need a minute just to catch my breath, at other times I feel so ever quick to cash in all my chips.
I question if you’ve felt the same.
My past is riddled with a longer list of what consists of shame- in terms of pennies on the dollar,
I’m the brokest of the lame.
I’ve had the aims of matchless flight,
I’ve fought the battles not to fight,
but on this night you’ve rattled cages,
and exposed just how shamelessly, what’s good is truly right.
Still I’m caught off guard when petrified beyond a breath.
Calm my trembling hand,
Please build a man who’s firm to stand,
I beg you’d loosen up my grip
Before I slip and fall on sinking sand.
I get shattered bones when struck by beauty;
Should I touch?
Is this forbidden fruit?
Is she the tree of Eden’s garden?
Has my fear become a crutch?
Can I be trusted
when there’s lust?
Am I disqualified from love?
Cause in this moment I’m completely incapacitated by this drug.
I flee from struggle, it’s a challenge.
Are there habits not to quit?
Yet there’s something different here,
It’s unique in how it shifts.
I watch these movements closely,
while I’m fearful of the critics eye.
Terrified that I’ve become, what I have known, who I despise.
Frustrated to the core when little foxes nip and pick,
At what I know is crafty workings of a gardener with gifts.
They come to feast the choicest fruits, they gnaw and nibble at the roots-
if I had any sense at all, I’d buy the biggest pair of boots;
three sizes bigger then what fits and tie them tighter than a noose;
go trouncing through that garden;
not thinking twice about the fact that “oh, those foxes seem so cute.”
I’d kick them hard and send them running- one by one, then two by two.
Exhausted in the end, but maybe then we’d have our chance to rest.
Not alone, but now together- we’d be closer non the less.


Catch the foxes for us father, cause even if I give my best.
My self sustaining effort will not help us past this test.
Witty writers with wishy-washy writes
Rhyming everything that comes to em mind
With every beat that cross em heart
Uncertainty and confusion though surround his live
Struggling to revive his injured vibe  
Like autunm tree; they think he died  
Poor and ugly; they paint him black  
Couldn't find love, no, he couldn't thrive  
Beauty shred but he still survive  
They even named him "the brokest ***** alive"  
 
But see, words has always been his spine  
His greatest ally when troubles arise
When the moon, the sun and the earth collide  
And the sky is tiled with a scary clime  
Clouding his heart, eclipsing his mind  
poem brought smile with its lines as guide  
So if not for rhyme, depressions could've ruin his life  
Writing to him is what oxygen is to the heart

— The End —