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.

Edward Unique Valentine's Day, Artistry and Afternoon page 2

Talib Kweli "Outstanding" Featuring Ryan Leslie

A 1000 horses galloping a 1000 cowboys riding

In the earthy existence galaxies intergalactic despair being mere persistent, swallow starships no aliens abroad this abandoned ship.
So the struggling horses get up and gallop for ten moons, gallop and gallop the motoways near highway codes.
Speeding with the radical Ferrari, we ride on horse power to the end.
We ride on the mother solar system power to the end.
It circulates our mysterious of time.
Questions riddled on human nature grounds...I am one of them now no better, no worse who is searching...for answers bottled.
Rattlesnakes don't cry no more mountain tears to its victim worth cherished.
A fargon leg horn colouring morning spirituality awakens hens, unsupervised sheeps losing their way in the emerald herds.
Where goddess sunrise sprinkles onto closed eyelids.
It sprinkles lost magic that hold onto white dust by eye lashes.
Where Internet rules inner cities have no care for the natural world.
It's natural resources, it's what's separates us from the animals.

There have been a billion of stars, billions telling memories of country western songs to flourish, cowboy adventures to their young.
There have  been a thousand cars speeding the fast and the furious, there have been a thousand cowboys riding the Nevada grounds, how horse riding that sounds, dirt tucked in their boots, 24-7 helicopters hovering, swinging like T-shirts, Jeeps stomping the muds, trucks running the yard, claiming life is hard it sucks to be behind schedule.
Note to VCR clocks, DVDs, BlueRay...this isn't  your twilight fairytales, no fast and furious rally, with crashing in an electric circuit.
It seems the go go go cowboys having the chase of their lives are always chasing us, catching us, hop over one fence over another, one partner hiding behind cactus, with rope in place, watching the gallop riot its way through gravels dusting like rushing winds of gust, buckle their shoes locking us in bar fences, riding us like camels, where travel seems far ahead of their time.
Isn't this the time to be free, go on a horse run spree with nature.
See the world in we run and run and run into the desert of Nevada, I'm no American rider, I'm a phoenix glider.

I've travelled there overseas, in the middle of nowhere but I run with them, ride with them all the way.
We have horses, strange mammals in Britain, they run, and run just like you but they're trapped, they can't swim neither but they can give one long of a niierrrrr.
Galloping legs, galloping horse power like Ferrari wheels I run faster than a speeding to be free in my own world thoughts, feelings spray, my own platforms on fresh grass cut and trimmed, no rough grounds making a horse stumble onto his knees, no traps can catch me, I'm unstoppable like a roadrunner.
Their ropes wanna pull giving them a rodes scenario.
Horns tussle through thick ropes, like a loose canon we're riding the hills all the way partner, the riders to the end.

The cliffs are horizons where we gallop senseless on runaway trails, horse shoe prints marking roads like a railway, but there's no Eurostar on our tracks, speeding bullets try harder to hit us down.
Let's ride to the hilltops where sunny spells cry drizzles like raindrops, it's wet and soggy on green grasses of English country.
The English Channel is near, the sea near the shore is dear.
We' ll gallop on the galaxies to another planet Mars, or planet Texas that's out of this world.
Stars in no limits, floating around solar system dreams, no rainbow can reach.
It's a runaway world, and I'm chasing a billion stars in the vortex, it's a pony.
The pony of my dreams, I dreamed for, and we need a barn for the little fowls that come into this world of ours.
Cos I want those same horses running free without no ropes or stables holding them behind.
I want them born wild and free, scare away cowboys like fleas, buzz buzz buzz off annoying ropes of talking saddles.
Go ring yourself a herd of cattles, rope strange yourself till you hang as hangman, runaway runaway to the horizons no man can capture.
Runaway to the rainbows no pot of gold can fool you.
I am the war horse that calls off the strangler, we are cry our runnings for release.
Spell your way out of this spelling bee, no string in the ass will give you release of my kick off.
So run horses of despair run all you like to the mellows, where they don't have to milk you for what you are worth.
You are the symbol that thrives for Apollo's lyre.
You are a son of a bitch that kicks a fuss.
You are the unicorn that leaps.
You are the other half that creeps.

Afternoon page 2

Storyteller, narrator, it was another, but a sleepless, timeless morning, and my tummy didn't growl for some Weetos cereal and call to get that jam slammed on toast.
"Awwww poor belly lost its appetite."
Hungriness stirring belly lust, beating his empty stomach, twisting spoons, splurges forks, knives for mooore.
Lights blinking, still awake in the early 11am, finding my diary of planned agendas for today is...Monday.
Early Monday morning grey, the day seems a little dull without any colour mixing the Big Smoke time in my diary, the acrylics harden the realities of my cinematic world.
Old friend hyena laughter of mine calling, bitching about his Halford's Manager, and asking to join his lonesome company at Southside Wandsworth, where he is diving his hairy face, devouring buckets of KFC, later he's at HMV, shark attacking BluRays, Danebury Avenue, playing Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2.
Can't beat the game wizard, but tries, tries and he tries.
Still he fails in the end.
But the rest was in the cinema watching Rise of The Planet Of The Apes, loud and action packed like it was Leathal Weapon 4.
I only wish it was me and her my girlfriend, in the back row, where it's dark.
Some buttered popcorn perhaps, and a large coca-cola.
Take her to a couple of museums, to be intimate with artistry and history.
Inspire hands in eye to eye conversations, the world is a gallery, the afternoon is a work out session, a gym class session.
The day doesn't sleep without the evening taking the sun down to South America, and up to North America for some common light.
Light only gardens can endure its rich photosynthesis.
Every hour in Wandsworth, take out spots, rush hour commences at platform 11, platform 2 and platform 15.

Calling at Wandsworth Common, Balham, Stretham Common, Putney, Richmond, Twickenham, Kingston, Norbury, Selhurst, West Croydon, Waddan Mash and East Croydon.
Eight carriages taking briefcase administrators, business people, secretaries, conference meetings, foreigners, sales people on their way wealthy and tired as bloodshot bats.
Traffic build up like a spine in Clapham Junction, youths window shopping JD Sports, Foot Locker is the best, Greggs will only put you on weight 250 grams at a time.
156 is taking us Wimbledon Tennis, 37 will take us to Putney Heath, 39 to Putney Bridge.
I can see Underground Tube from up here, my general route on 337 to Richmond, but in this case it's Upper Richmond Road I travel to, I carry on to.
The Underground doesn't get any nearer than East Putney Station I sometimes use for other alternatives, through East London ways it's Walthamstow Central, Hackney, Stradford, Docklands and Bethnal Green.
It's a different world out there, community wise and Tower Hamlets look higher on Shoreditch High St Station.
I'll be in Bromely-n-Bow neighbourhoods, guitar strings my jams in estates where raw meets acoustics in the bedroom.
Trying to hold it, hold it longer before it's a rat race to the bathroom.
And I had to just let it out, let it go like my fists tighten with sticks and stones.
Drop till my bones riddle with laughter, I made it back on the 14, Piccadilly Circus gave me highlights of British souvenirs, performers give break dance on concrete consumptions, pedestrians pass through with Tesco shopping bags, Waterstone's books in arms, looking forward to midnight closed eyes while I recite the evening page at 12.