Your verses are too long

They say my rivers are too wide to swim in.
They say they're too scared to dive in.
Climb off the high platforms back down.
Too deep to even fall in love.
If they had goggles, they can see what kind of event it is.
Tighten my lines that won't motorway us away.
They say I need to shorten my verses that aren't so epic.
Make haikus sonnets for the broken hearted.
Make protest verses to overthrow the government that will never happen in a million years.
They say I should talk less in order to be heard clearer.
Keep a short mind.
Have a short attention span.
But I love the Homer Odyssey.
The poem is inspiring.
Such Beautiful words ignored.
Ugly performers Thurman stages into cheesecakes.
Apollo is the god of the golden lyre.
It shouldn't be 2 D, but make it into 3D.
You want me to except mediocrity for what it is.
Be a gimmick the rest of them clowns.
Be a cliche for them, so I can be another spitting image chewed by the same mouth.
Become stagnant as I'll mount nothing but the pavements made for the homeless.
This is why my private world works with precious stones made up of experimental chemistry books of philosophy, intelligence and such.
This why we are stagnant and don't believe in ourselves to be true.
I'm sick of taking advices that screw my brain over.
I'm sick of doing what is expected from them.
Your dictionary of are nothing but a textbook agenda mocking the standard English.
They prefer it when it's short and to the point.
They get bored easily, become sleazy they stare at the performer like huh what who when why?
That's why activism is put on a pedal stool.
Keep them happy by ending it in two minutes.
Well they never write the singing innocence in versatility.
But command it to give Britain what they want.
At the moment it feels like a cage is holding me hostage on this land.
Tell me how to act when on stage is lightning the show.
Dress appropriately because beautiful people are watching.
It's not my fault my DNA is too creative.
It's not my fault my mind is open to possibilities than an average human being doesn't do.
It's not my fault I chose to learn the essence of poetry.
But you know what?
I should be close minded as well.
That helps make life easier.
I should be hard to please that's a great idea, go for it.
I should say "fuck poetry".
"Fuck the creative arts".
"Fuck everything that's breathing in my path".
Long live football that's what they wanna hear.
Dumb myself for approval and the writing works don't cry anymore sentiments.
They say your verses are too long to hold.
Lengthy as the bottle can't hold anymore juices.
The world is contemporary poetry, in modern settings it captures journeys like motorways.
So why slow down this 2 fast 2 furious when everyday is a rush on the road?
A rush to get to get to the otherside of Ireland.
Maybe I can travel your mediocre minds to Scotland.
It's not the fact I'm boring you.
They're just too long for your minds to manage..
Life goes on and on.
The universe goes on and on so what's stopping it?
I like to be different fro the rest, make sure all skeletons are out of the closet not leaving a single skull behind.
Your opinions are inadequate.
Your motivation is inactive.
Your words are the prototypes.
So why wait what I'll say next when it's near by?
Does it all have to be a cliche, predictable to notice what's coming?
Your short attention span is just like the rest of them, you follow short stuff.
Cos it's straight forward to understand as a crime novel.
If freedom of speech is wrong, I don't want to be right.
If happiness is right, I don't want to be wrong.
Maybe my verses take up too much room.
Maybe they cluster ears who don't care what I have to say.
Be more funny, be more quirky.
Less serious and more cheesy on your toast please.
Be like a Londoner they can relate more it's about the city.
Maybe I put on an accent so I'm questioned about my identity and race.
I just have a lot to say.
So much to tell.
It's your dissertation on race, social awareness, sex, politics, religion, media and spirituality.
I know it's a speech I'm spilling, a presentation with no projector to lecture stories and myths.
Your verses are too long and they just lost the message in your pollen.
They just sneezed in the middle of broken petals, swept to feel like it's never been collected.
Who are they to determine the way I drive these verses?
There is no ghostwriter in my notebook.
I know where my verses are going.
I know where they swim.
So don't try to stunt my acceleration to high mountains and beyond.
Finding your truths are more important than what every individual thinks you should be doing.
What will it take to be the one?
Cos my greatness lies up there where nobody can reach.

What's wrong with being HOT??

Ladies ladies ladies, what's wrong with being hot?

If she's smoking, she's hot.
If she's Wonder Woman, she's super HOT!!!
If she's kinky, you've guessed it, she's shit HOT!!!

Perverted as you may think, she's got that Halle Berry skin complexion.
Those Kerry Washington's brown eyes.
She's got that Serena William's booty.
Slamming on the court.
I love her Trina smile making her the baddest bitch alive.

Some Maybelline on those eye lashes.
I notice that weave gives her the Wendy Williams look.
A little bit of coco butter, she's almost there to perfection.

Usually I prefer natural beauty.
Make up free with no skyline mascara.
Or eyeliners for a Posh Spice look.
But if make up is her thing, I'll let her go for it.
Not excessive though, kills my interest to her attractiveness.
Feminine hands like Golden Blue.
The voice of Lenea Herew.
Hips like Gianna Michaels DAMN!!!
She's got that sexy back.

What's wrong with being HOTTT?!!!
So hot she burns my tongue like chili when we kiss.
She looks the look as she is walking down the catwalk.
Show a bit of flesh glaring mirrors catching my eyes on her.
Sounding like it's all about her, fooled by the glistening personality when she speaks.
Consuming my fantasy girl like she was Scarlett Johansson.

I beg the ice cream truck to fix me a Vanilla scoop with a Cadbury's Flake.
Those large melons aren't so fake, I dream of her my Carmen Hayes.
So haze, her body beautiful clouds my judgement like Marauyana.

She complains though, like kindergarten brats when men look their best.
When we shower them with compliments to make women feel good.
They smack us back with a wet fish like it meant nothing.

I thought women wanted to be beautiful princesses.
But now I see the clear picture of their ways.
Deceiving, mischief, manipulative, ungrateful a spoiled brat who values nothing.

The only way to bring happiness is to make her laugh.
But yet she has no sense of humour to make me laugh though.
A least she could try and and make a man laugh.
Throw in a couple of jokes if humour's the hot chocolate.
Looks can be deceiving, so my credit crunch will make me do anything to get in those knickers.

Still attracted to her personality though.
What can I say, I love women.

So what's wrong with being HOTT??
Doesn't the word, attractive, beautiful and sexy mean anything?
If not, then she's just about as ugly as Shrek's wife Fiona combined.
Now, don't get me wrong.

She can be sexier than Kylie Minogue.
She can be elegant as Beyoncé Knowles.
She can go out her way to embrace what's sexy.
It's like being naked in the crowd.
A celebrity of the moment, important like Future along side with Caira.

But seriously speaking.
If she's genuinely hot as a home cooked Jelloff Rice.
I'm all for it.
Maybe not too possessive or boring.
I like a good time with good laughs in Battersea Park.
Intelligent discussions at Science Museum.
Become movie fanatics at Cineworld.
Enjoy a casual meal at Nando's.
Travel places from France to Italy.
Read Danielle Steele, Stephen King or J.K.Rowling.
So tell me what's wrong with being a hot pie?
The oven has been good to her, try not to abuse it.
She shouldn't wait on a window seal to cool down.
Cos she'll be too cold for me to date.

Adventure playground

Where there's fun I'm already swinging from the monkey bars.

To the ropes dangling.
Freely as if nothing's holding them by branches.
It's surrounded by trees as if I'm running through a forest.
Chased by wolves walking along the log.
We keep our balance as they hold onto me.
Dragging me to fall first onto the scraps of wet chipped off barks.
Just laying there on the surface where we can't see concrete.

Lots of obstacles to challenge which one's on my mind.
I can tackle, hold onto, slide from?
As we grab a beanbag then slide excitable down onto those gym mats.
I wanna do that again because it was too much fun.
Enjoying the thrill of a ride waving my hands.
Up in the air cheering with excitement not terror.

Swings?
No swings in the playground to swing on like a rope's knot.
Holding a semi-circled Tyre.
Pushing my legs from the painted planks of wood.
Soaring into the air breezing my clothes as high as a bird.
Taking off from its nest, only if I had wings to fly back.

But I'm falling falling softly on more chipped off wet tree barks.
In comfortable clothes wearing a hooded jumper.
And track suit bottoms.
Pressing onto my flesh and bones I can get up run up the ladders of the adventure.
As my injuries can't stop me from proceeding on my journey.
Like it or not, the whole world's my adventure.

Afternoon page 4

January I wake up 7 hours later, 2nd day of the month at Johnson Court.
Tipsy away from champagne 2013 years of glittering light, family in the living room resting while Arsenal and Chelsea go at it again on the Premiere League.
It was my sister near by, left before I could even turn the laptop on silent, and watch Samuri Jack online.
Wake up everybody, wake up fishes I have a surprise for you.
She doesn't like fish, or lizards from chameleons of all sorts.
Just One Direction, and the Alicia Keys album.
Put It In A Love Song.
Love poems like raining dance halls, whether you need them they are love struck, but romance in London is dead, lust cynical bats looking for a fight to pick on.
Just fed up with life, hoping this shit will end in 3000 years away from a roundhouse circle.
It's purple though, and my tinted eyes seem to conceal shut like curtains, such a heavy sleeper to introduce the coffee maker I will never sip on as long as English Tea is around.
Not much socialising with kids, cos high intelligence to low self esteem seekers.
Good day to you Londoners, good day to Mr Kennedy the game wizard, I'm a game geek myself so I play your Call Of Duty's, Assassin's Creeds, your Need For Speed and the most Driver San Francisco.
I came to the family hall gathering, and looked on Sky Plus for basketball tournaments, The Big Bang Theory my sister loves the most.
I wanted the discovery channel where animal planet was pleasant to watch their habitats and their survival traits.
Go get it, pancakes flipping honey stacks of syrup, sweet like chocolate.
Mummy baking cakes to stimulate the dessert cream pies my belly is open like a porcupine.
Run faster than nipples on Cheereos, grab something harder than Weetos can digest milk in a silver spoon.
Happy Jelly Babies like to bright the roast after the Christmas, where hopes were almost disastrous that time I stayed over with the family.
Another cousin lost, and tears are spiraling to dust like it didn't matter.
Life goes on I guess , but pages spill detailed feelings of anguish and frustrations.
Never seen Ghana in 9 years, want to be in love with plantains and fufu.
Fante and Twi in the mix of my English tongue diverse.
In the XBOX360 house, common interests with Halo.
Assassin's Creed and Zombie Island.
Already neck in the woods came running three times a winner of football.
It's cold now, snowing the 4 weeks of beginner's year book, beginner's way of covering rocks that talk.
Snowing the next February's epic to cause road blocks, keep Christians at home, prayers opened at the dinner tables.
Food is delicious, and hot potatoes match the chicken drums with salad.
It's cosy, and I wanna move back there to the block.
It's where my comfort zone is at, closed bedroom doors where my privatised TV educates Playstation 2 games, Tekken, Desert Storm, Prince of Persia and X-Men Wolverine's Revenge.
Science books, astronomy I wonder if I went space.
I should feel space bound with Venus and Neptune.
So much self discovery is needed to be me, so much discovery in the individual in me is left to see.
It may sound selfish and self centred.
But it is the way the afternoon page goes.

Erotic poetry

Open sex letter comes stimulation for the body and mind.
Come onto my eroticism of art.
The art that lays you bare like wet paint.
You play with round sized nipples like a sapphire.
You poke your lips up as a shooting star like gimme some sugar.
Ring a ding a ding that noise on your stereo.
Your tongue twister plays with caramel words around and around foreplay.
Bring out the freak in you.
Don't be shy it's only poetry, we're experimenting.
Let's experiment with adjectives that describe you freaky.
It's alright to do a threesome or a foursome in a large living room apartment.
The pleasures are all mine, ringing dance tunes entwine with Dru Hill How Deep Is Your Love, Jodeci I Wanna Freak You, R-Kelly Your Body's Calling, calling for me.
It's exotic, the range is hypnotic.

So hit me with that erotic poetry shit right now.
Take it to another level like Blackstreet on the open mic.
With you until your pussy's stinging like an archery through your heart.
Empty as the void needs filling of an ideal man.
Lover perhaps next door from you.
Who's caressing milk like breasts pushing upwards to my nose.
I smell your chest as perfume cherry, the fruit of essence tastes like rhymes on water.
I've got lyrics for days, that's why I fuck this poem.
Bust a nut all over this poem till it comes with a million verses, sprayed like African Lynx.
I imagined being Lex Steele, expressing the art of porn.
All women of colour like ice cream was the next vehicle.
Drive your mind crazy when it fucks with your head.
Shall we create our letters to Penthouse instead?
You know...go in secret voices, write letters disguising your voice as the messenger.
Hoping you'd be the secretary behind the desk, the executive by the panel, or the manager who can manage my fantasies on the table.
Manage whipped cream licked up and down from my chest.
Honey drippings on your legs, while you tilt backwards I'm devouring that brown sugar craved on top of you.

Erotic poetry is a Mars Bar on space, a car's epic to vroom to steamy action in a shower.
My pen is a shovel, so I wanna dig deep inside of you.
Feel the urges collage ripped magazines laid out as missing photos.
Missing the fact I wanna date your intensity, missing the fact I wanna date your personification.
Turn your hands to flying paper planes, sky your fantasies around the architectures.
I'll climb to your top notch and come off with a hazel nut crotch.
Just remember the art of erotica has just begun.
It was the privileged our chemistry was like Kama Sutra.
Split you in half like a banana split.
My tongue is the spoon and your strawberries have muted.
You wanted to be fucked.
Fucked like never before, fingers clinging, moans like uuuuhhhh art was born.
I've painted the art of Gianna Michaels.
Body naked as the cupids shooting arrows at lonesome hearts.
Hearts only connect emotional beings we collide as the scissors cutting Kodac photos.
On the lousy floor, your hand between shaded legs.
It was a girl I had a crush on.
I'd do a poem on her.
Wrote the Victoria's Secret thong on the side.
Knowing the panties are wet.
Lick my lips like LL Cool J thinking this is it.
This is it to paint myself on your nakedness bold and round.
Seductive and animalistic, dirty and freaky, naughty and mischief, nice and hard, excited and wet.
Oh yeah let the waterworks begin.
While I turn on the sprinklers.
And shower you with cum.

Body of work

Turn my body into art...turn my arms into the nightmare tattoos of burning skulls.
Turn my body into gardens sprouting roses of the one I love.
My body is a gallery of old school photos like it was a photography studio.
I do not remember looking like that on National Picture Day.
The tattooist had tattoos of their own, the pain has left inks permanent attached to sensitive skin.
My mum doesn't want me to have tattoos, my body is too perfect from drawing silly cartoons.
Writings on your back, it's the Devil of the Western Culture.
Handsome boy doesn't need ink destroying his flesh by the Western Devil himself.
I act, I dance, I perform, I even broadcast myself to worlds unfamiliar with my art.
But we come from a judgement society, a conservative society and tattoos are creating enemies for liberals to lecture on skin discrimination.

Turn my body into art, make my work portray planets Uranus and Neptune can understand the ways the telescope can discover.
So discover the tattoos I express dark poetry.
It's Gothic talking black and Star of David being the religious cult of my cloak.
This is where fallacy has no apology to my skin.
I chose to pierce my vulnerable skin to death.
I permanently wanted my body to enjoy the pleasure of pain.
Felt like uuuhhh sex was on the plateau.

Turn my body to Tate Modern as I exhibit surrealism to the unbreakable masses.
The tattoos with meaning and consent, the slogans run across the arms like Bible verses were testimonies.
Turn my legs into Greek temples, standing stiff on athletic grounds racing for the golden Olympus.
See my art on my face, bleeding The Shawshank Redemption hypocrisy.
My life was the cold bars of steel, not wanting visitors in my bubble.
I'm wearing your favourite London Brand outside Oxford Circus.
I performed my naked fashion on Downing Street for the Prime Minister to see.
Turn my tattoos to art, cartoonist turn my hands into Scooby snacks.
And the sequel to The Dusk Of Dawn.
My body is the drinking fountains of wonder, the eye seeing conducts of spirituality that likes the surrealism paintings.

Yes go for it, turn my body into art.
I want the world to see the beauty in my nude.
Watch me undress the naked poem, make words fall down like drawers.
Get ready for me bears, tigers and komodo dragons, I'm one of you.
Now human beings, don't be offended by the rocking penis it's natural to wave and say hello down there.
Happy faces to be proud Mother Nature has made us this way.
So fuck the city life and be free.
Be like Nelly it's getting hot in herre so take off all your clothes.
All clothes, just let them brawl.
Let them flow in pavements to GAP and Primark.
Turn my body into art, I'm naked and proud, paint my chest red, my head green like a greener city.
Paint my feet orange, paint my tongue blue cos blueberries are the new raspberries.
Turn my body to art.

England (experiences with the towns)

My dad is an explorer, explorer for towns in the countryside, explorer in the British Isles.
Explorer on Isle of White.
Ford on 70 mph, canvases of hillsides, herd of sheep devouring green roots of England's vegetables.
But I wanna sail ships in Portsmouth land.
Away from the London suburbs of crowded street names.
These are England experiences with the towns.
The places of Southfields, young and unfamiliar with kids from Wandsworth High St, my father taught me how to ride my first bike.
I wanted to be cyclists of the motorway.
The M5 across Manchester and Birmingham.
We would go to Battersea Park, and look at animals of sorts.
Birds like ostriches, parrots repeating statements made by other people.
Bruu polly wanna cracker polly wanna a cracker bruu.
I thought Britain was one big  country that included 90 films on set.
And movie stars were living in mansions white as the heaven clouds.
I thought Hollywood lived here.
I thought actors and actresses like Halle Berry was here, Mel Gibson was here and Julia Roberts too.
England experiences in town like Hastings.
Fishermen fished here for trouts.
Yeah, that history tells otherwise.
It's like I'm in love with the countryside that helps me escape the hustle and bustle  from this London city.
Be with farm like people, friendly in clean air breezes, egg mayonnaise sandwiches gives me the gas sometimes.
All this travelling makes me glad I had a father like him to show me what life is worth living for.
Travel and experience monuments you've never seen before. Monuments that glorify stories in wartimes, fishermen catching sustenance to sell and survive.