Crush

Your beauty struck me like lightning, blinded my eyesight see.
When I spotted your Greek Columns.
Walking in the distance away like my journey was on an M5 to Blackpool.
BOOF!!! Hit myself on a lamp post, dazed in stardom, wondering "where did those  damn Venus legs come from?"
I couldn't let it pass me by, so my drive on a Ford Focus can high speed my approach.
See you from a close up view of your hair.
Swaying back and forth like I met Kelly Rowland on X-Factor the very first time I set sights on destiny.
Blinking your sparkling eyes, dazzling champagne showers, like she was the Creme De La Creme at the Eiffel Tower, the darling iPod that I love teleporting my mind set into her world of Funky House, R'n'B, Bashment, Afro-Beats, Slow Jams.
Lips sparkling like raspberries picked from Mother Nature's fruits.
Body shaped like hourglass spilling the sands of time.
Telling me it's time to approach this fine young woman, talk this woman, feel this woman, make love to this woman.
It's a race for your love, a Daytona USA for your love, a Grand Prix for your love.
And I'll be the first guy to pass the finishing line, earn your heart of gold.
As long as I'm not the nice guy who finishes last out of time, out of luck, out of credits no coins can insert arcades, continuing my quest for your elixir of love.

Now coming across high standards by your calibre on high heels, pushing myself on a treadmill impressing you, it's a distance by winning your approval that I'm the one for you.
Yes there's more fish in the sea they tell me, so my fishing rod is patiently waiting for your reply.
But you whiz pass my hook playing hard to get.
Well...this is my crush of Tom and Jerry chasing after your love in holes you hide yourself in.
It's ambitious, determined, not giving up without a fight for love like this.
Traps like a box of Cabury's Roses should sweeten the deal, like my ambition for your body in bed is erotic poetry at its best.
The art of your looks I fall for are from a bungee jump in your pool of Chanel.
Oh how I enjoy this fragrance uplifting me towards your beauty of seduction.
There's a sunshine behind your moping blinds that sets you free like a dove, under a mistletoe on Christmas Day.
For you see, Santa Claus sent you a xmas kiss will open my heart like a love letter of undying words like, My love will die with you, be with you forever and for always.
Your tattoos shall be my body of art, my love for you in permanent ink, my heart shall sink in 14 lines for your Shakespearian sonnet.

My love written in symphony played on a violin, flutes calling your name under the balcony.
Your crush is so unpredictable, I can't even tell if your love is just a fluke or locked by layers of your portrait gallery blues.
It's sailing, it's sightseeing, it's wondering the Atlantic Ocean searched my name for Edward, Michael, Kwame, Justin, Edwin or Jordan, would you still be my date for the night, regardless of the name I am?
Cos you see my crush is hungry for curves that match the size of your Tommy Hilfiger Jeans, my crush  craves for your hand on a cruise to Paris, our getaway is the language of love, in Red Wine splashes like vine juices for your mind one time.
Away from the madness that isolates us from you and I.
Stuck in Central London, finding the right signs in a busy environment, leaving me corrupted.
Finding ways to restore order in my clarity and deliver you the crush in McFlurry.
For my dreams of having you in my arms when I sleep, then my dreams of fucking you at the back seat of the Range.

If this opportunity was meant to be, my crush will dance the night away, on Lyric Square where fountains spray tears of joy, spray excitement lingering my love, my sexual appeal under sheets left untouched.
Yes this crush poem is about you and only you...words of mine can describe your portrait in that masterpiece, like Mona Lisa was my inspiration for artistry.
My only goal is to try and make you happy, for whatever it takes, my infatuation will never feel no scars, no sores, no bruises, hurt or pain.
It's a million to one chance I'll find you, miss you or even lose you.
Forever it's searching, seeking, peaking the mate of my dreams, the mate that likes me for me and not the charming looks of an Usher, because you got it bad.
Ludacris because I'm crazy about you.
Lemar well... I'm 50/50.
Drake I want this shit forever man.

Would your heart still be open from broken strings left unfixed?
But a melody kiss can heel emotional wounds left not stitched.
So smile, keep on smiling until your happiness goes down to midnight silence.
If my crush didn't put it on you like it should, would you still let it pass you by, across the boarders to another country, in someone else's interest?

Edward Unique 100%, Making love and Crush

1000 verses

It didn't start like this.
So my fingers are the writers.
It didn't end like this.
So my heart's a fighter.
It didn't start without the pen, scribbling the ranting I had in my thoughts.
Anger management was loose on the page.
Writing down something premeditated, somewhere far to project the conversations louder to perfection.

The pen did all the talking with people I felt inspired.
With people I've seen performing.
With people I've socialised after performance.
All the rumours and gossip that spread like cancer.
People from Southend, Brighton, Birmingham, Liverpool, Reading, Bristol, Washington D.C.
RikTheMost, Jason Pilley, Simon Mole, Lorna Meehan, Gerry Potter, A.F.Harrold, Jack Dean, Nia Barge, Jah-Mir.
All came as a collective I can write this piece.

So as I birth these words, a thousand verses means a thousand poems for you.
Give'em a kiss, they'll grow up to be just like you.
A thousand copies means a thousand books to read.
One and over a number of verses I've written.
Valleys over a number of lyrical ballads I've read.
William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
But don't worry, you might not know who they are.

I've danced the miracle salsa to impress.
They say it's all confusing, it's all random, but fuck it it's originality, self expression.
I've done sets of my life story at the end of time.
The time has now come in the pages to mornings, afternoons and evenings.
Even though I haven't read a bedtime story to a child yet.
Read the signs pedestrians, Edinburgh festival I will meet with your mountains soon.
I've recited metaphors that are excited.
Dying with flames to get out of this bowl of cereal.
Eat your corn flakes.

So the energy comes with practice and patience.
I'm like Ice Cube pushing words like weight.
Cook up something that spells recipe, that calls your noodles on deck.
Jelloff Rice making the hot chili pepper to sweat.
I live in the essence of running hot rhymes together, that catch on fire in seconds.
All the times I had to improve myself from the underground up.
Now I'm overground reinvent myself like clockworks were ticking.
There's no time to waste no.

Witness a body of work that captures tattoos like butterflies.
Yes, my nature is open to all turn my whole body to art.
Collect myself together like a deck of cards.
Prove myself again and again to get out there on the spotlight.
You know that foot in the door to be accepted right?
Take no for an answer cos Ms Poetry hasn't finished with me yet.
Get on these required open mics so my voice is shared like drinks on a coaster.
Reserve the butter and jam for a toaster.
Enjoy.

I can write songs forever and ever as long as they are poetic.
Be beautiful as mugpies, ringing lonely visits to Wandsworth Common.
I sit on the bench.
I'll give them justice in one word, one rhyme or one sentence at a time.
Flowers like humming birds.
Daffodils like open strings of an angel's harp.
An open book of rhymes, riding Somerset motorways it passes by Bristol.
Exploring emotions like a growing kid in childhood, finding his voice.
But scared to be a star around unfamiliar faces watching.
They might judge me.
They might condemn me.
They might make me feel so stupid, I give up writing forever.

But how can I?
The choice is yours look out there, the world is yours.
Nas said it right there on Illmatic.
Poem is love Floetry.
But it's my love poetry a diary of unique love.
The timeless pen just chips of Yonkers, bricks from Jersey City.
I was on Tooting Broadway, look for some Putney poses to cremate.
My writings mate with lines from a journal named Lego Windsor and Eton Riverside.
These are a thousand verses sprayed like paint cans.
Stained like old saints ruled the world.

The master watches over us, as I watch my own mind create sentences fabricated to.
I've sowed the stitches to my signature as I invent Edward Unique Poetry.
Brain food is a thought for philosophy.
Surrealism to create egg and mayonnaise sandwich in one bite.
So which Halloween shall be the witchcraft of 31st October?
Which circumstance could I use to create earthquakes from underneath self conscious skirts?
Which pencil can I draw the obvious oblivion that is meant to fall down like an avalanche?
I tend to write longer and longer verses, a thousand verses means a thousand kisses.
A never ending tale to settle for less.

Finish the completed sentences.
I guess less means more, only shorter ones win on the long run.
So I am gonna renegade like Kate Tempest over the flames I regenerate the timeless microphone on a high speed jump.
Over the hurdles nearly tripping my words I stutter and stumble.
Back on my Timberlands, I stomp the roach like U-God.
Did the crushing sound of ilk make you croak?
Or make you cringe out of them socks, cos I'm not wearing any?

A thousand verses are naked, it strips from anchors down the abandoned ship.
I will sink with fountain pens as long as my words can breathe above water.
Rose my love will forever live in the future of survived petals afloat.

Happiness is the light in me

On the highway dreams, the summer is somewhere in the Margate streams.
It's the beauty in your skylines that twinkle my stars to tweak tweak tweak.
I painted your Venus pink hearted, I raided this cold with Mercury moons that hit home run.
The evening star became the watcher of your balcony.
I touch your solar system when we orbited the galaxy climax.
I climbed from the dark caves of the unknown blackness.
Went on a rampage breaking the tinted windows clouding Brighton's sea gauge.
I broke free and hugged your sunny days on the beaches of your Arcade pier.
It burned like lava and I thought my sentiments kissed your lyricism to be born.
Happiness is the light in me, not the dark resided in me.
My rib cage will be the last thing to breathe.
It's thunder vs lightning, candle vs lantern, come walk with to sandy Isle of Wight.
The dream milkyway spirits will protect us.
My happiness is confident in lighting your joys in acoustic sessions.
I wrote a song just for you on my guitar strings Yamaha.
I played your Alicia Keys keyboard in solo mode cos rainy days like this puts windows to tears, when we sleep on rainbows.
I don't know the definition of a sad song being so detrimental, my teeth begin to ache when I lose my baby teeth.
Sail your young'uns abroad I can enlighten their spirits of fire to ignite the midnight sorrows.

Happiness rinsed all traumas creating scars on my invisible skin.
Joy I seek like the lost creator of this spiritual palace.
Sugar the walls of candy Adam's apple.
I want some of that queen bee's honey.
Where are the heavens when I need them, where are the bright angels carrying the harps over the French clouds?
Where are the glorious flames shading the orange shadows blaring the firework show?
Confidence energy rises like the never lasting volcano about to erupt its Mars epic.
I sing sing sing the happy hours of Joe Get Crunk Tonight, Get Crunk Tonight.
My dancing bones can't help but to lift up drinks like a Happy New Year cheer, a Happy Easter like Christ was home in my heart.
But the bitter people don't want the positive light to spread about.
They don't want it to embrace the unfair city that is never pretty to blend in the green pastors.
Vegetables nutritious to the thighs I come prepared for the storm.
Mixing the rain, yes I am mixing the brown rain.
Let it shower on me.
Let my happiness shine through me, yes me.

Happiness is the light in me, not the dark resided of me.
So be gone with you demons of the night.
Be gone to the depths of Hades.
Though I try suppressing bad dreams of failure.
Negative thoughts around bad environment under my pillow.
But it seems hopeless for it to all just vanish away into thin air.
Demons lurking the happy clouds, release the God of the Boogie Man to condense the yellow light of sunshine.
Ambers of bright ready steady.
No I want to go when green light says so.
Escape the Devil's tides trying to wash me up on his island.
But can never catch my life off guard.
I see all things behind your disguise, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
Happiness is the light of me, not the dark of me showing you the red 666.
So close the doors in my inner circle, no strangers shall enter into the light.
Cause the dark smears of nightmare swallows from dirty shirts like stained ketchup marks.
The resided blood on lighter shirts no happy  hours can rescue.
But can pray its residue a bigger splash of my Tate Modern.
Happiness is the splash felt on diving boards to the morning shores of running footprints.
Walk with me, I'll take you to the melting ice creams in vicious circles.
I'll still be in search of my happy place in the moonlight, fiery volcanoes on Hawaii lands.
Problems are like leeches sucking blood of golden corn flakes makes me alive to breathe.
So why leave my heart on my sleeve?
Why crave for darkness when there's so much light on the centre?
If we're meant to be positive, what else is there to share without the concepts of love and hopefulness?

Creative Imagination

They always ask me.
They always tap me.
What is it you write about?
What inspires you to write this piece?
What makes you write this poem, story and why?
What is your treason?
What provoked you to create this vivid world of anger or righteousness you believe in?
I say it's a big world out there to explore, I'm not on a small island you know.
So what's not to write about, and pick out your time or place in the field.
What's not to talk about the beauty of life, the fantasy novels giving Gothic dragons the dark anthem, the fire inside the burning fuel for inspiration doesn't run a once in awhile schedule to be written.
I need to write, not just once a month, I need to write everyday of my life.
Read as much to enrich the language I speak.
Add note later for stories untold, the world is my journal, my weekends that give family depths to the writer's imagination.
Creative writing, where have you been hiding?
I told them they don't understand you, or respect you without commodity.
They think you're just a waste of time.
A waste of effort.
A waste of space.
And a waste of energy being put in a book.
The pen is not sold cheap for school homework, it's eternal like endless air.
Regenerate the lost turntables that call for intros, lyrics for the future in light years to your missing moon.
These writings take a hold of my musical words at hand.
The conductor orchestrating jumping syllables to my notepad.
Take a pick at the region, take a missing void and fill it for the continuous Out With The Girls story.
I know Battersea has my creative spirit around these parts, but I trust myself enough no borough has my back to be authentic, spiritual and universal.
Creative writing has no limits to the ocean.
So why limit it to narrow minded fools?
Why limit to just storytelling, the funniest, depressing agendas?
Or the typical subject matters that run on social change, race, politics, hate, sex, economy and religion we've known for years and years.
Something specific will sound the same.
The 21st Century isn't gonna help the writing move forward.
If our minds are stuck in the 19th Century on what creativity should be.
Leave your attention span stagnant as always.
Creative imagination has more to offer.
A movie like The Lord Of The Rings.
Let's look a the Inside Man.
Imprisonment to the box no room to breathe, no room to venture out.
I can't be your Lil'Wayne, your Rick Ross, your Waka Flocka or your Nick Cannon.
I can be a lyrical genius amongst the few Shakespeare, John Keats, Ted Hughes or the Metaphysical Poets.
You always say be yourself, find your voice, follow your heart.
But you still measure me and compare me to other poets to sound like them.
It's either you lied to me, or you're a hater who doesn't want me to shine on stage.
My creative imagination shouldn't happen overnight like everyone else.
I know where my writing lies, together the pen and I will find our voices.