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.

I need variety

Everybody is not one thing.
Claim yourself African, Chinese, Arab, American, British, Japanese or Indian?
We are humanity as one.
Water is my volcanic formation, will later open my letter to wonders of the world.
The space in time I need a variety of images to provoke the art in We.
The human soul in my humanity, the spirit in me shall remain open minded.
I need variety like I need culture, it's good for you.
Geography is the world to me.
Every country you name on the globe I'm there.
Life is not issues in circles created by evil doers that cause them.
There are guns, terrorists, criminals existing here on this Earth.
Lost souls in the epiphany of violence that wants to rule all.
Like a revenge to society.
How can positivity exist if we're angry and bitter at humanity alone?
I can't just be one human in England or one Ghanaian prince of Ghana which I would like to be.
I'm all nationalities combined with sophistication than your Oxford Dictionary.
Artistry on my body defines me, spirituality accepts me like angels awaiting my halo to uplift me.
Variety from drawings in Richmond Park where wildlife rules, young ice creams spill profoundly for pigeons to pick up.
The legacy in these rhymes sonnets verses creating existence to John Keats, Mark Goodwin, Philip Gross, Michael Heffernan, Tatamkulu Afrika, William Wordsworth.
Just imagine beauty being like poetry, I'll sound like an African Shakespeare in your kingdom.
Reciting acoustics on India Arie strings cos the woman I see in brown African eyes is my goddess.
I need variety when life has so much to offer, I need variety like a lion needs prey of survival.
If writing for social change is the case, why not have all performers recite the same dialogues of knife crimes killings in London.
Where oppression never gets old to break the unbreakable glass.
I need variety of things to stay in touch of ideology.
Fast rap like Twista, new and fresh like J-Cole.
In my footwear like Addidas, around the world an international go get it.
No turning back, cos there's a no exit sign behind where I've started.

Find your greatness

Go ahead and find your greatness wherever it may be living.
In a Chelsea Mug, inside your girlfriend's sports bra, under someone's weave..
In your Nikes, look over your shoulder, inside a toilet.
Whether it may be seek, discover, conquer.
Check under your mattress, in the bookshelves or in your dad's armpits.
Come on and find your greatness.

Find your smarts on another planet wherever it orbits.
Wherever it flies on star-ships going to science fictional chambers, Star Wars.
Find the glow sparkling the genius within your circumference.
Into the sun it warms your cold heart on fire.
Your only desire ignites the flaming torch to carry on the running spirit.
Athletics beware of the prodigal son, beware he's right there behind you.
Sneaking in tight spots where you see fit.
The word's a stage, the word's a stage, the word's a stage right?

Did you miss that mic under that stage?
Kissing the assembly floor near the fire exit.
Staring back at you in the face.
It wanted you to embrace what you have.
But you turned away from greatness.
Ran away in disguise like a coward.
To regroup with the skeptical crowd who had no faith in you, whatsoever from Genesis.
It was asking for your assistance to reach out the champ in you.
The spontaneous thing in you, premeditated at the corner.
Isolated where no one can find you, or even conversate with you.
Find yourself unique in these parts of the universe.

Lift off the average soul pressing weight down your everyday struggle.
Under the rooftops you lay to rest.
It's hidden in closed eyelids.
Only Lucazade can boost up your energy to duh wake up, you're dreaming again.
In Underground stations, carriages seems to fill up each carriage to its full capacity.
There is no more room to squeeze in dreams through industrialised zombies.
Unaware of your full potential crossing Brick Lane like Dave Crowe.
You've looked for greatness under a tree.
Where you've sat with sketchbooks outlining the colourless landscapes.
A far distance in King George's Park.

You've searched in car parks concealed in Vauxhall Astras, BMWs, Mini Coopas.
Your journal had stories pant up of the city gems.
Looting through branches and coming to Southfields Prince's Way.
See your greatness lived in depths of mountains over the horizons.
When you climb to the top, your foundations to success.
So love the things you enjoy the film makings of your written history, your poetry of innocence.
Let your legacy go to the distance.
Enjoy the exciting rainbows taking you places no money can take you.
Find your greatness no matter where it may be stuck on.
It's stuck on who, stuck on you, no it's stuck on stupid.
Find it before it finds somebody else on the corner, with nothing to live for and allow it to slip into their hands.

It might find you on TV, get you a rep in the streets like respect is good right, so why ignore it?
Opportunities comes once in a lifetime, so why leave it to chance?
You said you wanted to be a rapper, so go ahead and rhyme.
You wanted to be an artist and make paintings dance a million times in the Whitechapel Gallery.
So carry on young Picasso, exhibiting your art.
You are the timeless microphone speaking to be heard, so why should anybody cut your sound off?
It sets beautiful trend as the greatest thing alive over Reeboks that runs your social commentary.
Just do it the Nikes insisted you to.
Just do what comes to you naturally, run fast before the lightning strikes the oak tree.
Become the self incredible, self militant, self reliant, self made you.
So go ahead and find yourself, know yourself, claim yourself, be yourself.

2 turntables and a microphone

Walk this way like Run-DMC.
Do it this way, be unique.
No drugs, no talks of poverty.
Let's educate the young minors.

Blob was the art

They couldn't see your life in black and white.
Or the variety of substance in a wheel colour trance.
They say art is boring, it doesn't move me.
Cos art is still that doesn't impress me.
They walked from it, abandoned the creative depths of fantasy art.
They chose moving pictures over painted walls that doesn't move the soul to appreciate the fondness of romanticism.
Listen to the calling footsteps pounding your stones to the playful pavements.
There lies the chalk artist and his creations of thought inspire those around his circle.
Blob was the art that planted skeptic assumptions of the artistic world.
Where most elderly pay attention to magnificent masterpieces of the great painters in the 16 to the 17th century.
Blob was the art they came to known.
Like blackness laid over their eyes to sleep.
Nothing but floating bubbles giving them headaches, walking around the Tate Modern.
They had no interest in 3D art or is it's exhibition to date, footsteps around felt like.
"this place is shit" "I'm tired, I wanna go home" "I'm bored" "can we go and see The Expendables?"
Art never has to be the individual intent to the viewer's eye.
Never does, it have the boring intent of a fat lady, in the Cupid's sleeping love dream.
Take a trip down Blackfriars, we will sip the blood rivers in Victoria Park.
As long as Finsbury Park romanticises tree barks and kisses the cars on busy roads.
Blob was the art they gave me.
So the next individual copied the same replica and put off artistic visions out of lovers of art.
There is no art lover in this gallery, or a pencil sharpener.
Art is what you make it.
Thank God I'm one of the few who appreciates art.

African Queen

African Queen, dear African Queen My African Queen be not afraid, there's a goddess in you that likes to be free.
A goddess that's a butterfly, afraid to come out of this cocoon.
Come out of The Big Smoke and fly.
Out of the enslaved imprisonment African American lifestyle that hates your skin complexion.
Don't want to face your problems alone.
Somebody help you.
The role models on TV, we idolise our heroes wanting to to be like them.
Hating yourselves first, forget yourself lost in a conformity ocean.
Ladies, sisters, mothers I understand it's not easy being Black.
Not easy fitting in.
They called us every derogatory name you can think of.
Big nose, big lips, Negro, big bum, dirty, filthy, nigger.
So we cover ourselves, pretending life is White.
Pretending we're a different identity to mainstream society.
Perpetuated by ideologies of White Supremacy.
But no matter how much we want to hide, the skin remains the same.
So you go ahead and drown yourselves in materialism.
Stamp for self gratification.
Want all the finer things in life.
Wanting to be glamorous like Kim Kardashian.
An actress like Kerry Washington.
And so the Pound and the Dollar becomes your master.
There's a beauty spell moulding gifts of goodnight sleeps in your perfect eyes that stand out.
There is dear Africa in the pigment of your skin, oil lotion smells of purified coco butter.
Palm trees have been the definition of Mother Africa who resides in you.
Tells you, you are beautiful in God's image.

So why indulge yourself as Cinderella, and I'm the prince who came to save my sleeping beauty?
But you carry that self hate within you as a heavy luggage.
Bleach your skin like you was Caucasian.
It's like the Brown skin of India Arie never existed.
Like it's a curse, it's dirty and you wished for a lighter skin of the sands in beaches.
How can you say Black is a curse of our race, how can you say it's the mud of poverty?
If chocolate is sweet and brown, would it be that dirty if I took a bite of Cabury's?
If hot chocolate is powdered sweet, sexy, tender and can warm the lightness under quilt covers, is it poison to drink it?
For I have seen the beauty within the skin no man can get close to.
Not blinded by America's Top Models that made you, or the kind that rely's on Maybelline, Loreal mascaras.

Look at the mirror, what do you see before you crucify the pigment of your skin?
Tell me...what do you see that lies in front of your gloom face?
The queen hidden inside you.
The princess many people forged inside your low self esteem to believe you are beautiful, you are beautiful on the outside.
But what about the inside that is African?
The Ghana of Gold Coast, the Nigerian spirit connected like a cousin who is dark as you are.
It's natural to look this way with your fellow ancestors.
The African queen resides in your forgotten skin of identity, the identity of knowledge itself.
Know who are before you become lost in a conformist society.
I am too a Black man, finding himself, knowing himself wants you know you too.
Not for the sexual desires lusting in my head of Candice Nicole.
No the woman of Negress Mother Africa planted like bananas, plantations, pineapples, coconuts of fresh water blessings the coloured side of you.

African queen will rejoice in you of praised goddess of beauty, not lust of hips that curves the hourglass.
Listen to U-God's Black Shampoo, be in tune to coco beans made to purify the broken skin of our time.
500 years of racism has got you fucked up in the head.
The forgotten traits I am an African of this continent land, not an African American or a Black British.
In the names of Abena, Aboyo, Abungu, Achieng, Amaka, Chioma, Cleopatra, Efua, Eshe, Ife, Manyara, Lungile, Makena, Neo, Nia, Nyarai, Olamide and Olufunmilola.
Your name does not reside the compounds of Sara, Victoria, Rachel, Lisa, Lucy, Amy, Emma, Natasha, Elizabeth, Paula, Britney, Heather or Melanie.
African queen I wed thee in the name of the Father Son and the holy  spirit, God has blessed you to be unique in complexion.
Stay true to  yourself, love yourself will empower your character.
Mother Earth made us different, we are the Adam and Eve that met on the garden of Eden.
The kings and queens that walked the Earth.
And Pharaohs sun of god, Venus of love.
Let's spread love to our next future born, for they not live in self hate but of righteousness can prosper pride in African skin.
So they all may swim a thousand oceans to see greater things.
African queen my woman will be the death of me.
You claim yourself strong Black woman, and denying your roots you claim yourself unworthy.
African queen, you are not the Catherine Zeta-Jones, you are the Tyra Banks empowering women, the Halle Berry, the Gabrielle Union, sing like Jennifer Hudson, play piano like Alicia Keys, Ashanti.
African queen, uplift your self-esteem and breathe easy.
Release your feminine energy, cos without a soul of an angel you can never fly free.
Don't be afraid to spread those wings, don't be afraid to walk tall and proud.
So go ahead African queen, make Africa proud.

The pen that I write with

The pen that I write with is my voice of many inspirations to come, and bless the ink.

For your enthused minds only, I was born to think poetically about our creative format view of the world.

The flow I deliver moves like waves of the sea shore. That I'm sure will bring a piece of mind in

calm atmosphere by my blowing sanity. Sweeps in beautiful clarity barks upon a finished canvas

I call, heavenly world of Eden. How human are we, if we are here to impress our extensive vocabulary? 

We as human beings have to express the quality left within ourselves, for better lyricism. To engage the audience to think with their minds open, and not what's written from an Oxford Dictionary. This doesn't comprehend my thoughts I gather up like static shock, that sparks an idea, when I switch to human qualities surrounding my world of artistic imagination.

The pen that I write with has no limitation to what I posses in my ink cartridge, that allows me to put the ink in translation of organised paragraphs. That sets aside the topics for an artist's point of view, from the fact it's not academic verses for you poetry lovers. On your cheesecake seats, listening to the way of words flatter from my wet lips. So let my ways of the pen levitate your wits to the words I have to share. To show that I care as the next international slam poet, than some politician giving nothing in recreation to his words. To steer the up coming generation in the right direction. It's an instrument I use for wordplay and  concepts to sharpen up my messages to strike a nerve. A purpose for us to take time and patience to observe.

The  pen that I write with is my sword and shepard I go to battle with. Poetry slam is a competitive sport, which means the pen has to be strapped with witty metaphors, in order for judges to score "yes, you were a worthy opponent." Spoken word itself is meant to be heard, as well as written verses being composed of your own dialect perspective. I unfold powerful imaginations by the work of my black and blue bio, in a zone where magical things happen and open up characters existing beyond a stone can reach. Like action speaking louder than words, I am one with the poem.

The pen that I write with has come to an end of its sentence, and yet it's persistant to carry on without my

presence being near. So whenever you feel like borrowing a pen for your own thoughts to consume.

Or lyrically going to war with a cause. Just remember who's voice your representing and why have the courage to be heard.

Ghana poem (Unforgotten roots run in my veins)

This is a Ghana poem, I leave to you. Let the British Airways take me somewhere beautiful you’ve never experienced country love like this before, take you somewhere exotic, where it’s hot, nice and friendly. Nor the grounds, trendy Nikes could soak up the dusty roads and asked for a runner up. Experience the sun on your back 29 degrees burns like Mercury was giving you a 1500 metre workout. Fly me on vulture wings somewhere you’ve never flown before, singing the cloud songs, soaring musical flights of soundclouds in the air. Let the humidity hit you sideways on dry grounds talking international tongues, like I came from diverse cultures. Open arms in Akwaaba amongst Black people, Akwaaba means welcome, humble as pie. Sharing you the slice of that mmm mmm mmm, African goodness. Tears runs down my cheek like the river Nile. I’m talking about dear Ghana my friends, the Gold Coast of riches. Ghana my country, Ghana my culture, my 2nd home from Britain.

The land of independence has me missed from an international call in the distance, away in the London City, flashing lights beeming my sights, only blinded my true identity behind Piccadilly Circus. Back home, they are chanting, chanting, chanting ever so gracefully. Memories of my relatives all rush with hugs and kisses, Native tongues in Twi, Ga, Ewe, and Fante. No memory loss leaving visions blured, they remember who we are, Ghanaians in Britain, happy in God’s eyes they can feel us in his presence. Ghana is good like life in existence in a lot of ways. To be able to greet one another, look out for one another like family. We are the Black Star of our nation, the integrity of our culture, the moral standards run through us like shock waves from the pylons. We are the traditional values with Ghana flags waved around its national anthem theme song on Flag Day, singing....

God bless our homeland Ghana,And make our nation great and strong,Bold to defend foreverThe cause of Freedom and of Right.Fill our hearts with true humilityMake us cherish fearless honesty,And help us to resist oppressors' rule With all our will and might evermore.

Young boys gotta eat too in lower class communities. Young hustlers on the road selling Tampico, plantain chips, sweets only made to rot your teeth. But it’s sweets like this I wanna crave Ghana’s fruits and its juices quenching thirst for health. I wanna crave its African beauty of life in poverty but embrace hearts of the people, I wanna crave for the soils made to inspire, make me belong on grounds that pave my presence to lead like Kwame Nkrumah. Landscapes of mothers washing young infants in round bowls under the sun. Portraits of Women carrying bowls of yams and coconuts on their turbans. Miss the good old days when it was us and the relatives driving long road trips to Takoradi,  where drinking spots are cool like Fanta and 7Up. Kumasi where we got robbed, Akcosumbo the cruise of a lifetime, the educational institute…University of Ghana. We are everything God has made us brown as clay, coca beans smothered in chocolate Nutella. We are everything the fields in green roots would nurture the rocky roads feeling bumpy, giving us the stumbles, the trips falling flat on our faces.

The brown dust is just a blur of our Region, driver command these car wipers to clear the visions of the heritage, my ancestors Ashantis raise your symbols in Adinkra, Kente Cloths. God save us from malaria and the sickly, change is coming from a thousand years journey to fix corruptions of the country, uplift community from the muddy grounds left stuck in the mud. Obama inspire Ghanaians to lift themselves from settlement on potato couches, and make this country stand up. How can we forget the Independence Day we fought for on March the 4th, 1957. The victory tastes great with Fufu, Jelloff Rice, kebabs and a couple of chicken drum sticks. The Hip Life music make the world dance in rhythms of mixed rap and reggae vibes, African beats makes the world party hard like a raver. As the Accra Region hear our calls, as the Ashanti Region hear our prayers, as the Northern Region hear our cries.

Like a Ghanaian reunion we are one with the Red Blood of our fallen soldiers fighting for the independence that gives Africa its backbone. We are the Golden jewels brighter like honey bees make like a pound sterling, like the 9th carat gold you wear around your lonesome neck. We are the Green crops, feeding the nation’s starving tummies, helping the country growth in economy crisis, educational schools and the computers left disconnected from the world’s source of discovery. The Black Lone Star of African freedom, the freedom to shine in with the Most High, reaching for Saturn’s rings. We are the hundred psalms that sings in orbit no slavery ship can uphold our spirits like doves in cages. Do you know why this caged bird sings? This bird sings, to break hold of these golden bars with the mighty fist of Black Power, no longer a slave on those ships, sailing our souls overseas, to be something we're not. Even though the backgrounds of our Diaspora is left unsaid by the Western Culture Media. I still run chocolate skin deep of the African nation’s coca beans, fresh and original. Yes being Black is beautiful like Motherland’s precious conitnent. Yes coming from Ghana is extraordinaire, the roots run through my virgin blood. For you see, your home is my home, your people are my people, the Gold Coast is our treasure. This is a Ghana poem I leave to you brethrens. It is my pleasure from the heart to pledge allegiance the three stripes of the Red, the Gold, the Green, and the Lone Star….Black.

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.

Explore everything

I wonder if there be a written story of The Travelling Artist from Ghana.

Or The Travelling Photographer from South Africa.

I wonder if I was meant to be famous for all eyes to see me ahead of my time.

I wondered was I meant to be the established man heroes of Malcom X, Kwame Nkruma, the next Barack Obama to change the world?

I wonder…thirst for adventure with photography, I want to see the wondrous mountains in the northside of England.

I found your pictures amazing by candle light sight, how the explorations reach your perfect canvas.

The map is the astronomy of skyline the crescent.

I want telescopes branching sea mammals racing the great shark oceans.

A boat trip to wonders where wild things become dangerous at times.

The huge world wide web lets me be with interesting sites that collage the software paint, photo shop have the images loop to bring photographs to life.

My friend says you wanna do everything, everything in it. Yeah, I do.

Always waiting for something to happen, I can’t even entertain myself for starters.

Or even make myself laugh, even though I do try.

I want to explore another language in another place.

Get out of England and live like a foreigner speaking the French words in Paris, I want to explore a French broad looking like she was into poetry and music.

Let’s eat some French baguette, butter rise of the sunset.

I’ll speak your voice and you can be obsessed with the English accent from another place.

I’ve taken telescopes to see higher planes of Delta airlines, almost dreaming I could fly anywhere to the Philippines and Thailand.

My mum says I spend too much by myself, and not enough family time spend on appropriate weekends.

My sister complains I spend too many midnights on my laptop.

Sleeping has become a thing of the past, get these days on angel pillows.

I want to watch everything on YouTube has to offer.

Forget Pansonic television, give me Internet television no TV License can charge.

No tax can stop my surfer from giving title websites title waves upon Google maps.

It’s like a Tomb Raider Underworld, explore everything, stop at nothing.

We discover more.

We dive deeper.

Because Aberdeen said so.

The rainforest cries

Nosy clouds hovering like aircrafts, exploring tropical leaves some dry as human palms.
Some wet as dripping Sunny Ds, some greener than others, the metropolis is jealous of Mother Nature's creation.
The tears pour into the heartless jungle and frogs are hop hop hopping to it under water, where they stay.
It's large and like a playground I feel more dangerous hidden than bear traps clamping my ankles.
Through forest canopies I find myself in the Braulio Carillo National Park.
Sunlight giving birth to Earth's plantations to breathe life in the funky house roots.
They sprout like sunflower seeds.
The rainforest feeds the jungle in tears of joy for the rest to enjoy minerals like bugs and lizards.
Camouflage with the bamboos.
The environment is not sweet as the sugar canes chewed by the West Indies.
Down in the swamps crocodiles lurking their picks with piranhas chopping their preys on large birds swooping by.
It's their lunch, their survival of the fittest under brown depths of the dangerous grounds known to man.
Reptiles kill in cold blood no blizzard passes by their cruel bites.
The waterfalls have landed and the weather clears the skies with a cloudy handkerchief.
No sunny days can cheer up tears like this, dry lands give out dry lines on the South American soils.
Its wounds almost open up streams to flush gravel and dirt.
Finally found lakes larger than life.
Open minded like an encyclopaedia I have found the most thrilling frights of the century.
The sights unknown explored by the use of The Amber Spyglass.

Rock African Art discovery

Up close the wall ancient in Greek mythology, legends lived here before Christ.

The hands of a photographer touches the cold rocks, seeking the humanity that shivers through his casual wear.

The River Island has seen all but the fashion travelling the Waterstones.

The Apollo hero shows his lyre music it lives with Egyptian Pharaohs, your long gone history reminds me of Cleopatra VII, this stone shape and form of the lands best plague.

Black love existed on hard shells of our love making vows.

We existed like lost blankets finding our homes through the cave ages.

When poverty hit us like a heat wave, we blended the interior designs of mosaic tribes.

Civil war struck the Sierra Loreane grounds.

Heritage to African gods holding spears up most high, they are warriors.

Closer to many edges of prime, The Lion King is roaring the rolling stones to Kingdom Come.

They pick up where they left off, they contemplate the puzzles that confuse elder souls.

No growth of wings spreads their freedom to Western civilization swings.

Carved patterns reminds the Shakespeare sonnet's rose in tattooed Greek.

Imagine Athens looking so heavenly, clean as the skyscrapers of Detroit.

Dreams followed the New York Times to your Times Square.

She walked to the intimate tome stones, written in bloodshot scriptures.

It struck her fragile spirit that wanted to wish on hope for the lost people.

The soft clays that hold up Zimbabwe tools of crafty men.

Their bones wanted palette scoops of Australian sands, that forecast forthcoming pioneers to the self centred.

The African art expels misguided straws that came up from bamboos.

Humans wish to ignore the treasons they seek in holy gods, myths that gave birth to realism through disguised thoughts and feelings.

Build up colonies want nothing but the enslaved folks.

Stories go stone to stone that captures sings of storyboards.

Strip the dignity that holds respect to colour decency.

Pebbles fade fatigues it's lost the remainder of gems.

Chaos emeralds hold power like flaming torches were handled by champions.

Running blind light on steps to greatness, it's getting dimmer he drops his light of greatness.

There are followers of Ghanaians running dirt through Hercules sandals.

They grow musketeers through their elephant tusks, walking this land development exists.

It needs your attention for a second.

It needs your leadership to guide your artistic greatness.

It wants your visitors to cling on this obsessed treasures lost underground.

It wants your life story in tome stones, your history in the makings will prevail the rocks into quicksand.

Make my living legend a rock star, I want nothing less for jogging jacks of red souls.

Sleeping like none of your business.

I am drenched through cloud waters that take my thoughts on the road to Hermes.

Run with the messenger, call the old rocks old timers they've lived that life.

Now it's ancient and no one remembers the marks of greatness, slogans written like hieroglyphics printed your wisdom.

They will guide you, open the narrow minds of those closed in the dark.

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