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.