The Lyrical

I can feel the greatness climbing my voice.

As the Martin Luther King speaking his dream.

My lyrical mind sharper like the Wu Tang Clan, sword of Shinobi.

Conscious concern like Talib Kweli. 

Energetic like Punk Rock.

I'm the next Marilyn Manson reeking rebellion of expressionism.

So let's rock n roll till the early morning rises, and puts the nightmares on time out.

The guitar strings I travel around places of Acoustic Conversations with rhythms of Joe Thomas, a little bit of Ed Sheeran, artistry of Still Life, ambitions for the Grand Canyon soaring skies, exhibiting cliffs with an edge.

Take me there on American wings, where the eagles land. 

Make a living through songs on imagery of life, contemporary art is what my crayons desire.

Poetry is not silent without a voice being heard, a verse bearing in mind, a microphone I blow the dust off, and bless the stage like it was Blessed Souls.

The noise ringing many ears to the cypher of a Roundhouse collective, an Albany Theatre telling monologues and stories of Lewisham.

It's seasoning food poetry, a couple of tomato plums just to get the juices going, a couple of Maggie Cubes made to flavour the platforms in sauce pans, frying pans I make cheesy omlette phrases that leaves a dancing spell covered in glitters. 

And I saw it...believe me I saw it. 

It was her that sparked the magic when I was at the rock bottom.

It was her that opened my heart, mind, soul and spirit on pages left unspoken.

It was her that believed in me, uplifted me from the grounds of Hades, nurtured the critical wounds slashed by slam judges. slashed by individuals who thought I was a nobody.

My masculine touch felt her feminine oceans that inspire tides to raise higher than basketballs can aim for the hoops.

My mind is a Tube map, travel through centeralised thinking in multiple colours.

Spoken word and poetry is my sketchbook of sketches on Albert Bridge, sketches on Eddie Dakora, pencils in 4B 2H 6B leads.

Scissors cutting out the bullshit, erasers wiping out errors.

Poems are my children, the mother pen gives birth to story telling fantasies, theatre plays on relationships, monalogues on the sun and the moon.

The poetry is life, poetry is energy, life of a workaholic, life of a male finding himself.

Poetry is the language of art, the language in impressionism colours of...a Sunday afternoon on the Island of the Grand-Jatte.

A Stary Night where it swirls imaginations, Van Gogh conflicting colours onto canvases.

The beat of rhythms on African drums sending coded waves like a Morse Code, Ghana where art thou, Egypt I'm reaching for your pyramids to the top.

Take me on a Safari of the wildlife, the beauty of nature has my adrenaline pumping louder than roaring lions, could ever catch my heart jumping out my throat.

If the truth must be told, let's start some controversy, controversy for speaking my mind, mayhem for lashing out on competitors in self defence, defence of poetic licence unwritten. 

Spoken word knocking, kicking inside my head.

The words recited by mouth in orbit, breathalyse planet peppermint segment.

The science museum of discovery, sky rockets floating in blackness, filled with stars shining, shining Buzz light years not to be missed.

"I'm ready for the world baby, come and take me on, my chest is out and I ain't holding back."

So I put these words like scrabble in order.

I take it everywhere with me like a body of work was my tattoos of art.

My art in National Portrait Gallery language, where silences rules my head, my solitude of thought, how can I express words mightier than fists can hit hard.

Harder it hurts like a stingy neetle, leaving sprains of the reminded stupidity, emotionally wounded, it cuts through you like a knife.

If I can describe poetry as my journal of life, the universe of discovery on my own self on, who am I? Who are you? Where am I? Who are they? Rum Punch made tipsy and I'm just blurred for words. 

Chill Pill is underground like poems of the underground.

Hillsong sing my prayers to the Lord, as I am in good spirits on the Most High of my life.

Reaching another level on the open mic up in Walthamstow Central.

Spoken word is poetry, when I kiss her on the mic.

Make loving words pass through open speakers looking and staring like..."Where is that mysterious voice coming from?"

Through your anti-social mind, trapped inside Beats, knocking you off your feet.

You bare to listen what I've got to say.

If I were an iPod Classic, or an iPod Touch who solemnly feels your fingertips, would you still love me?

If I were your headphones, who goes up inside your head would you still feel me as the poetry lover that I am?

Only this is not love and sex I'm describing to you missy.

I'm describing the world of wonderland. 

I am describing the world I see through Columbus's telescope, I am sharing you visions on painted canvases by mowah...the one you call Unique.

I am sharing you the lyrical side of things, the open minded envelopes I post messages like Tweets.

I am...sharing you the lyrical side of poetry outside of London, welcome to my world of...ideology.