Chocolate tears

She wanted your Twix milk chocolate eyes to see caramel cones that can groan.
He was talking about the Malteasers that was shimmering the factory to floating butterflies.
So the melted dreams tasted like bunny rabbits on a summer's day, they hop they skip they jump.
Because it was their Easter time, and I wanted to hunt all of your Easter eggs in one basket.
Tears that feed your nourished bread crumbs, and I thought the pigeons were in love with Jaffa Cakes that rose like bosoms.
I swam into Cabury's bubble bath one time, and the tub had my heartfelt water running your clueless chimes like Winter days were walking into winter nights.
Now look, it's 7.30 in the morning, the hot burning sun giving odor bacteria the smelly morning, and their sweat reminds me of hot chocolate coco.
Your chocolate tears gives me the lumps, one or two lumps in fact.
I had headaches measuring my pain has heartache.
And no sugar is sweeter than your Apple cider, ringing your Adam's Apple like a yo you up and down up and down up and down up and down.
For crying out loud, my tears rang out to shed, who let the dogs out?
The agitated dog barks your missing bridges, I was chased by the glowing moon and the Big Ben called for a chocolate dip in the tea house of ceremonies.
I cried and I cried and I cried and I cried like the baby I was, in Butlin's Town, there was no jelly baby near to smother me up.
The tears melt on my tongue, and the bubbling Nesquick rushes in like Coco Pops was in town.
She never wanted the taste to turn sour, when two lovers combine Milky Bar and Hazel Nutella climaxes.
Ready to twist the nourished toffee plums of your so called cherished soul, so why dry those blueberry eyes?
Why sink so low with this coffee cup?
Why must you forget I was your number one fan?
I have sweated so bad so bad for your taste buds to clench my anger.
You can't see it melting from my wrappers, so my chocolate tears will sing for me when I cry this Kinder Surprise up loud.
She felt intrigued by my syllables anchoring home made Crunchy.
The caramel serpent sharing lust these days on apples that croak sesame seeds to bleed on its knees.
So we need your unconditional love to embrace, unpainted love to rub our tattooed tears of tasteless chocolate butter on our fingers.
It was sticky at first, then made the out come look so icky as tenacity had a miscarriage.
These tears won't stop being so empty, with no Sprite to split up the Coke on Foster's coaster.
Take a look at the young squinting his facial expression.
See the generations of untold sorrows lie in their pupils that hide in shades of true colours that display the black and white photography.
Let the chocolate tears be the recipe for crying souls unknown.
Let the teardrop from coated tears be the factory of semi-skinned milk cartons of the missing child.
Let each teardrop be the Starbucks of the syrup cup.
Let the remembrance be the resurrecting for shared out chocolate tears.

Forever young is never too late

Forever it was me, him and her.
First born squirming out the womb, that's me.
Experience the bright lights.
My eyes puddled with tears.
Still couldn't open yet.
The young two siblings yet to be born later on, that's them.
Being young for XBOX we couldn't afford it.
The young kids brought in Britain.
Imagine London like Greece, but computers have covered the lost beaches of Athens.
Sprung for Duncan yo-yos, butterfly flatter.
Yomega X Brain that slides like.
Silver surfer.
Yomega was the epiphany of the school grounds.
That's right I wanted one.
Fit in with the rest of the peers.
Yo yos were in fashion school popularity, the young in teens Converse shoes, Nike Air Max, Reebok Classics that football pub fans endured.
But we had PlayStation One when I was playing Spyro The Dragon at Toys R Us.
And Two grew along into our lives when Tekken 4 was out on Christmas.

Young for cartoons in the morning, waking me, singing me alarm spells sleepless lights.
7am for Dexter's Laboratory, eating plastic picture bowls of Rice Krispies, snap,  crackle and pop.
But the childhood was only temporary through domestic chores that took us to adulthood quicker.
No time for young snacks that sweeten the tooth.
Maths being the golden subject for problems ahead of time.
Be grateful for what you have, but my stubborn mind wouldn't understand I just wanted to be like them.
You know those juvenile delinquents.

Forever a bowl of Ready Break, boiled eggs and sausages.
Sometimes I like some cheese on toast, watching Walt Disney classics giggles it's rubber like the Flubber.
The Great Mouse Detective I stole from Blockbuster's, no surveillance at Clapham Junction, back then.
Toy Story, Pocahontas adventures made us inspired by animation movies.
Acting our favourite character.
Living under our parents roof, going by grand rules, running around Patmore Estate, park on Deeley Rd, skateboard park at Carey Gardens, BMX, Apollo Mountain Bikes.
Kids spraying water pistols in the summertime it was the wettest summer to date.
Battersea Park was my lyrical adventure playground, we use to enjoy amusement parks, ice cream trucks passing grey turfs, by the football astro turfs.
Skateboards, Rollerblades skating footpaths like a Skating Rink.
Let those mountain bikes sink down Silverthrone Road, all those jitters racing my body.
Kids riding their scooters they got on their birthdays, Christmas Day was a little more frosty.
Roads frozen like an ice rink, I need Guildford's ice skate shoes, come do ice hockey with us.
Living life like a Final Fantasy, bees make noises through Richmond Park's forests.
But they want to play Nintendo 64s, I felt like Super Nintendo in the 90s and Sega Mega Drive in bedrooms keeping them away from the real world.

They want the trendy Nikes and Reebok belong to peer groups with the swaggers.
The colourful laces keeping it hip with your homeboys, your homegirls that come from the hood.
But she wants me to stay, my sister she wants the whole family under one roof along with her Nintendo Wii, her Alicia Keys, Beyonce CDs.
Her unconditional love on BB messenger is what keeps me comfort.
Awwwww, look at that baby faced sister on the iPodTouch pictures.
Cheeks plumed like sugar plums sweet as the Malteasers melting chocolate tears, melting fears in wrappers I share from Celebrations.
Forever she will be my baby sister, the fan of Michael Jackson.
Forever he is a computer analysis of digital technology.
Don't worry...it's cool to have an iPodTouch.

Forever I stay vibrant and lively like the frying pans and grills burning with fire.
Cooking up like hot dogs ready to be devoured, dancing taste buds sensations like I was forever young, forever fresh, forever living the life of a youngster.
Nosey, cheeky, don't know what to do.
But the youngster lives in me.
The younger mind won't leave my old soul inside the real world.
When I tell these stories, these young books Winni the Pooh children will understand, forever young is never too late.

100%

Pt.1

It's going and going high over the limits.
Watch me saw like an eagle off the edge of Mountain Missouri.
Take the 99 to 1 out of the equation.
Fraction of a 100 and replace the 95 with a plus.
As I'm pushing these Upper Richmond Roads, Shopping Centre walls out of this jurisdiction context.
And yes fellow residents, I'm pushing these lousy Deeley Road songs out of the project windows.
Riding your dark alleys to Steward's Road.
The light that takes away the cold balconies to Alaska.
I'm freezing, uplifting these insanity weights from the Christian country of souls.
Leads Earth soils to the moon lust looking so holy...
I'm losing my ring doughnut glaze to morning double sausage, and sizzling egg muffin meal breakfast.
Lazy afternoon jam tarts filled with strawberry temptations, and evening apple turnovers weight to the Greggs fat obese sugar.
That won't slow my arduous journey on climbing ladders to the Mountain Kenya.
Linkin Park and Busta said "WE MADE IT!" Yes sir, we finally made it.

So the strong gain longevity like the growth of Solar energy.
I eat healthy ASDA organically so let my spirits live on wisely dear son.
Live on this wing of phoenix.
Live oh dear God save me.
Live on this path of righteousness.
I draw the one I love in Margate Theme Parks.
Screaming children, teenagers yelling the Dream ride thrills.
With the town centre colours that gives Hyde Park beauty kites and light.
I'm living life broadly so the surf is up.
All around fantastically.
Oh yes amazingly fun indeed.
It's exciting.
Portraying life poetically and my art is the Southbank artistically I live it.
The literature is my Poetry Library Theatre.
Open up I tell as it is in monologues as an Emotional Day Shakespeare.
Everyday like twine it's above 50 per cent I'm counting.
Enough to hit 60 per cent and over the hurdles we go.

So the Creative Arts is giving you my all a 100 per cent full mode.
As I play the ukulele and nothing less of my pennies worth.
Can afford this street square dance.
No less than 40 per cent average of my lips worth.
So let's kiss on the spot.
Kiss.
Kiss...kiss on the Poetry Slam while everyone observes...
Don't worry sweetheart, it's alright...they'll cheer.
They'll cheer our kiss till there's no half size knickers.
Soaking 50 per cent of her cum.
Cos there's a part time sex on the beach who calls himself that.
Mr lover lover.
Everything excels in excellence, like rock n roll poetry is energy fuel.
And I'm the Ferrari that sparks the horse power.
Oh my God guitars break out electrocution, explosive rapture we're aiming higher.
Destructive as we're coming, we're coming, we're coming hard.
It will make your eyes wide open.
Your eardrums pop.
It's infinitely a 110 per cent and over the valleys we go.
The O2 Arena crowd screams for more "cheer"
And more "cheer".
And more "cheer".
And more "cheer".
And more "cheer".
Coming in with an encore.

Pt.2

Open the curtains live.
And witness an international sensation before your eyes.
Knocking down your ginger doors than your average gimmick open micker.
My words spit artistically like Piccaso.
So send the cubist my way.
While ideas spiral shapes and forms like a brainstorm exhibition.
Smoker of your casual time.
No pub will hire you back in.
I'll be more addicted like nicotine.
Leave  a stigma taste on your tongue.
Begging for more.
Begging your Queen Elizabeth Pound notes to smoke me out of the blues.
You may not like the taste of my poems that stink your breath.
Stink your clothes that grabs shopaholic's attention.
But enjoy it at the same time.
Because I'm The Chronic.

Awwww sweet sweet darling, metaphorical sweetheart.
Could you write something romantic, steamy, passionate for the ladies please?
Excite them with your oohh sexy ways and your dirty talk....oooooh you're such a naughty boy.
Erotic poetry is a must, as I gets it in a 100 per cent.
Like billions of stars lit up near your face.
But it's excitement you're wanting.
The topic wants nothing but the best.
Faster and powerful moves on your desk page.
Follow the leader on the dancing stage.
It's an A plus versus your E minus grade average.
And no degree loves you like that.
Who respects your percentage hustle in a hurry for cheers like this.
I'm all over your numbers like mathematics, the subject matter is...
I'm not giving you my heart or my soul, I'm giving you my all.

My words.
My thoughts.
My rhymes.
My art.
My imagery.
My world.
My passion.
My sweat and tears that leak.
My thousand verses that speak.
Here take it.
It's my all that counts right?
So my effort is to push boundaries up Larkhall Park hills.
Treat it like the Crystal Palace jewel of the Jubilee.
My all that lifts up kg weights in your local gym, Fitness First.
My all to give street lights the blinkity blink 24/7.
The carnage that creeps with empathy and organic traits.
I give you full power from my Daurecel.
Full moon will let your nightlife live.
A full circle of my sphere.
A round house of collective portraits that waves watercolour lakes out of control.
Poster colour skies.
I give you my full time commitment to this job.
I give you my full time education to this role.
Cos words I speak and seek.
Know how to teach ideology.
Know how to reach philosophy in another level on your mic.
I have reached my goal.
I have succeeded the best way possible.
But there's a lot of work to be done.

Feel me go hard, as I turn this mic into stone.
Feel me go concrete with this vast poetry that made the rose grow.
Feel me go all the way like a South West Train to my destination...galleries on Passing clouds.
They see me sky high on a blimp.
Sky dive with easy jet.
I never let go of promises I made to dreams I must assemble.
I must draw my all in landscapes that reach your artistry of vision.
So you can see it.
Picture it your interior design that entwines your full happiness for clean house.
This is my everything you see you get.
This is my all that infinite voice will never settle for less.
This is the beginning chapter of the prodigal son.
This is my 100 per cent I put in Coolspot game play.
This life is a game and you have to play it to the fullest.
Don't lose, don't die 1UP is not giving you an extra life to come back where you left.
Clock it before it's too late.
Cos 100 per cent is all I asked for.

Body beautiful

I've been...dreaming for this, seducing this, fantasising for this, soul searching your body chords that tingle.
Sharing your voice all over the world that mingle.
Finding secrets through your body figures of Playboy magazines that excite me.
FHM magazines that recite every eye candy I envision.
And Maxine looks like (wolf whistle) HD.
Your body is the dessert cream pie I want for dessert secrets.
Dessert spoon turning Victorian sponge cake fantasies like pornographic visions.
The dessert of whipped cream pie on rock nipples hard as Rolo.
Or the body as the milky bar as Sara Jay.
And I can trace your curves through blue velvet covers.
Munch your belly button like it was Ferrero Rocher.
Blue dreams washing those briefs off.
Push up bra giving that Sisqo vibe in your Lingerie thongs.
Love making is like cookies and ice cream.
I'll be the ice cream truck, and you can be my delighted splendid customer.
I'll come over and scoop you up from the pavement.
With flavours you couldn't possibly resist, making you my Strawberry Cornetto.
Your body is like the Cabury's I bought from ASDA or Sainsbury's.
You put a price tag on your tender loins I can't possibly put my hands on.
Curves filling lusting deeds I would do to you in the Devil's bed.

You keep your body closed in jackets in cold moments.
Not to reveal your inner beauty, cos your heart is snowy like December.
Your outer beauty yells out, she tells you "don't, do not reveal your inner nature to the world. They'll laugh at you, mock you till you shrivel like a rasin...it's embarrassing."
C'mon Ms Panther, release your freak of nature, your inner grizzly, your inner being that allows you to be free from these handcuffs.
Free from society's perception of another celebrity clone Christina Aguilera no fan would marry.
Just be by your side for your looks in make up.
Attracted to artificial appearances. 
Would they fall in love for your natural beauty, or dump you in the middle of goodnight sex from foot fetish?
I never exhausted your body for sex.
Even though I do have to admit it's quite tempting.
You do need to get some pleasure out of my lips, I've saved for someone special in my life.

Let me be the Boys II Men lover.
Sing you the melodies I'll Make Love To You.
Close your curious eyes release you from depression and insecurities you keep yourself locked in prison of doubt, and loneliness.
Let my fingers drive your hair fuzzy.
Your body cringe with anxiety you missed touches like this.
Touches like the number one feel for my finger chronicles.
Closeness when I sleep with you tonight.
The cuddles after our love making breaks virginity vows.
The bed closer than midnight windows casting nightmares upon sheets covering our shame.
So please, please don't deny your dangling breasts.
Cups that fill your milk size jugs.
Don't deny the woman you are.
Don't deny  yourself, or destroy yourself through industry demands.

Because I'm only saying your body is popping like champagne.
Banging like fireworks.
Let's have a toast.
A celebration for body beautiful no matter what others say.
You'll always be my Creme de la creme.
My Snickers of satisfaction.
My Munches of mmmmm mmmmm mmmmm, my Galaxy.
CRUNCH here I am Venus.
And my Twix lover of two because I want you.

My Darling iPod

My darling iPod, oh how I love thee. 
The one I love revolutionises the way I listen to music in my modern times. 
The one I love, revolutionises how I interact with other people. 
Only now it alienates my judgement amongst others around me. 
They say I'm being anti-social even. 
But it's OK, I don't need them anyway. 
I don't think they realise I've got her in the palm of my hands. 
Protector from scratches that may come her way. 
So I've created a concealed bubble for you and I to control our own private space, where I don't have to face the next door neighbour in a passenger's seat. 

My darling iPod, oh how I enjoy pressing your buttons that turns you on like a hot kettle. 
Sprung up the steamy playlist, as you shuffle them up randomly and I just set it to repeat, repeat, repeat the minds of an R'n'B lover. 
Going bump te bump bump, white headphones like arms bringing me closer to your applications you have stored in your system. 
I believe you have plans on bringing me to your world. 
As I lose myself in time, I hear voices shouting my name that brings me down to earth all of a sudden. 
Noise pollution seems to rattle ones curiousity in wondering what's going on. They bring my attention away from the iPod I love, and that kinds of pisses me off, as we were getting "jiggy with it" in the bedroom. 
My darling iPod, how I get the jealousy factor when I'm not with you. 
Probably another unknown user could be arousing your time, pushing your buttons making you feel high.

My darling iPod, how I lone for your use of entertainment that fulfils the enjoyments we share. 

How I lone for your use of information when the clouds are gonna send rain upon us. 

I lone for the use of mobility because we stuck together like Bonnie & Clyde, on the ride to the stars. 

As the music elevates us into new heights above the rim. 

So why ask about me and Ms Sony Walkman, well that's nothing but my ex-player who was only limited on changing tapes than using random iTunes, like it was computer love. 

It left me bored and withered, so I had to move on to the next greatest trend out there. 

I had to find something I couldn't take my eyes off, but instead your seduction manages to seduce the money I had planned for my uni tuition. 

Something I could devote my time and place of solitude, away from prying eyes who may easily snatch you away for their own pleasurable needs. 

Fuck'em I say, why be with them when you've got me to look after you. 

Or is my time too needy for you to give you my all? 

So you see, all these years I've wasted being with you, been loyal to you and this is the thanks I get from an inanimate object. 

Oh fine then I'm leaving you, divorcing you even. 
I'm sure there are better things to explore than be listening to you.

Artistry

Writing animated poetry, thinking they’re real life.

Drinking Malibu is believing you are there in Ibizia.

Sleeping in New York City is dreaming you are with her in the stars.

Wishful thinking is doing God’s work spiritually.

Contemporary theatre is magical play, when the phantom of the opera reveals its other half.

Painting is contemporary photography that captures them in landscape.

Pencils we draw is contemporary expression.

Love for artistry is the Albert Bridge I sit next to her intimacy.

The beloved River Thames flowing letter waves, my inspiration is urban falls.

Civilians analyse the way I paint her vision dearly, boats still as life water.

Drawings I conjure up in acrylics, that mix in with time and leisure sports.

You see London is my thoughts of pathway pavements. Battersea is my little map of inspirational walk.

My all around who is drawing roses that squirm harmony hippies.

Painting the River Thames, slower and sharper.

Seeing reflections ripple of visionary sonnets that spell Chelsea homes, house make Victorians cringe for their teas and their cupcakes.

The telescopes see art expressionism open up e-mail boxes. Pop ups like pop art on the charts.

The kind of musical colours that go BLAW, the kind of colours that go WHOA, and it’s heavenly sent to Kandinsky.

I’m only painting Mona Lisa like Leonardo Da Vinci, romanticise red valentine lovers in Romeo and Juliet tragic love affair.

Love is passionate, and passion is rainbow fluid. What wonders photography has in correct lens, SLR rearrange snap shots like it was high definition on Sky Plus.

Lucky views have excellent sightseeing architects, from Tate Modern views.

It’s St Paul’s Cathedral, on Millennium Bridge with tourists walking, camera snapping, architects lifted high in raise your flags internationists. Raise your hands if you wanna fly, sky dive Origami. European romances on Spain grounds, Magaluf gave me the best sex of my life.

Real Madrid improved Spanish worlds of Spanish arts, Italy has the God given boot internationally known. I’ve flown sketchbooks over the horizons, to conclude Mountain Everest in its peak time.

So give me the paints, give me the acrylics, give me the spray cans of delinquency.

Hold onto my canvas tight.

Don’t hurt the oil pastels that reach oil paintings to fossil fuel.

Don’t hurt the creative instruments that strung, pick, bang, pluck, pound noises that ring stages to a theatre near you.

Don’t let the noise down to worthless silence that kills the joys of energetic fields.

Don’t lose the creative streak that invents large Russia into multiple talents.

It’s a gift, blessed with the mic. A brush for ambition so let’s paint.

A pencil for scribbles, so let’s draw.

A pen for mistakes that Manga couldn’t handle, but I doodle leprechauns that eat Lucky Charms for breakfast.

I doodle buildings, that talk London Bridge tears of liberty.

I doodle African art that hieroglyphics which has a spoken heritage to my heart.

So let your world be free, seek and explore tropical arts that shine.

Museums that display artefacts with a story to tell.

History is everlasting, artistry is never forgotten.

So don’t forget the artist that painted your face to celebrate dates of Feburary’s lover’s land, July school ends, August summer begins.

Don’t forget the artist that inspired you, don’t forget the name of the artist.

Cos I am he that keeps on breathing.

Making love 2 music

Baby girl, I wanna make D’Angelo love to you 
where the sounds of R’n’B is playing like no other has done to you before. 
Undress you down to your knees and make your toes curl. 
The mood takes me along your thighs, while the Tyrese song On Top Of Me is playing, I picture your body laying beautifully naked from the start of our erotic fantasy. Yeah, you heard me right baby. 
I wanna make D’Angelo love to you where the sounds of R’n’B is playing like no other has done to you before, undress your hidden buttons that turns you on at the right places at the right time.  
Not just treat you to a one night stand, fuck you and then leave you type of love. No, that’s nothing but lust in the air, only players on the field would do this to you. 
I want to make this night grand till you could barely stand on your toes. 
If the song was our One Life Stand, I’ll make it everlasting till our bodies depart several ways into 7^th Heaven, god willing. 
Where the greatest sex is irresistible addictive, brothers have forgotten the way to love again. 
Let us make love by the fire place where the steamy sounds of Strip For You sends wilder wetter dreams beneath your Victoria’s Secret. 
Where the flames flicker in desire to ignite our hearts on fire, where I can just taste your tender skin edible like vanilla ice cream on a hot Sunday. 
Put your back against the wall and feel my mouth making its way around your neck like a leech. 
Your arms locked around me like a cage, trapped inside your eyes, what a surprise we’ll be making love in this room tonight. 
Let your moans ring my ears like a telephone hearing my answer to moan as we climax to stardom. 
Let us make love on the balcony under the moonlight where the view of Venice is great to explore the nightlife darkening the final hours.

I wanna make Tyrese love to you in the morning when the rising sun is bright, slither my hands between your legs just to get you aroused by the things I’m gonna do to you. 
Get your pussy moist than running rivers could ever meet the size of your canal. 
It’s your love tunnel that makes me wanna come inside, discover the orgasm that takes my breath away.
Out of this world into outta space, across the universe.
Going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and...on.
If that’s not enough to satisfy your guilty intentions, let me turn up the heat in the shower. 
The water is our final hour to make us wetter than rain, wetter than waterfalls could ever bless us the explicit nature we are committing.
I am your definition of freak in the sheets, the music lover wants to take you under the covers so he can wet up the sheets with you, toss the telephone aside so there be no interruptions while your erotic moans takeover the bedroom. 
It’s like a chapter I’ve torn from Zane’s novel that will tell a Getting Buck Wild tale will get your hair in a twist. 
The rock ‘n’ roll sparks the volume to enjoy moments like this. 
Moments where the electrifying guitar thrusts through you like a 1000 volts waiting to make shock love till you say “yes…uuuhhh yes… oohhh baby… I’m about to cum… YES… YYYEEESSS” 

The slow jams of Marvin Gaye playing ever so smoothly, ensuring the vibes are in its right motif. 
Guitar strings playing so gently settling aside the hardcore edges, pouring your heart out into the sensations on Sexual Healing. 
I want to be that sexual healing when stress levels are high. 
And calm your nerves with Herbal Essence formula with a sexual healing bound in your soul. 
Captivate every language in your body turned on by the rhythm playing our mood swings, musical notes dancing on our tongues as we French kiss under the chandeliers along with the candle delights. 
Like R-Kelly, with a little bump n grind.
Make love till I hear your scream out the signs of Opera moans meeting its thrust of my dick. 
Make love till our bodies take on the heat of Miami, as the rushing tides splash upon us, exhausted from the ooohhhs, the aaahhhs, the climaxes and the orgasms we’ve generated.

So once again baby girl, I wanna make D’Angelo love to you where the sounds of R’n’B is playing like no other has done to you before. 
Undress you down to your knees and make your toes curl. 
Without your R’n’B lover by your side, there can be no chemistry between us. 
There can be, no place to touch you, no place to tease you, please you in your time of need. Yeah, you heard me right baby. 
I wanna make D’Angelo love to you where the sounds of R’n’B is playing like no other has done to you before. 
Undress your hidden buttons that turns you on at the right places at the right time … it’s that OK to make love while the R’n’B plays your nipples like turntables? 
If not so, thanks for allowing me to replenish the wildest fantasy of your dreams. 
I hope my wet dreams have steamed you well for tonight, I’ll make those panties fall down, your DD size cup bra unfasten and make those grooves to my rhythms a reality you’ll never forget.