Poetry...

Lifes Story (Otherwise Known as Untitled) By Emmanuel Antonio Andrew "Drew" Edwards-Smith

Immeasurable compared to time,
Is life's complete extent on the art of rhyme,
From time to time,
The worlds ends stand still,
Happiness stops,
and runs for the hills,

A black redemption,
So sickly,
So sweet,
Reminds me more of black mutilated corpses,
Left rotting in the streets,

Life's numbing embrace,
Is deep sorrowful cry of sin,
Simply condemning a man for saying,
"Oh i'll never win",

Its cruel and unusual,
How life can be so celebrated,
When seventy-eight percent of its population,
Feels like they're eternally hated,

Life's poem is dark,
Full of humorous satire that pokes fun at a man's dying heart,
Its cold, cruel and tactical,
And yet, it seems to enjoy making people think its practical,

Life's poem is a unrighteous ruse,
Full of confusion,
Left on a very short fuse,
Its no wonder how its often misused,

It's chuckle is a never ending nightmare,
Embedded in time's told tales,
Of never ending blackness,
Often a road layered with nails,

Life's story may be very bleak,
But every so often one can sneak,
Just only one small peek,
Just over the top of its peak,
At life's long story.


His Dark Silhouette by Emmanuel Antonio Andrew "Drew" Edwards-Smith

Drawn line by line,
Continuous through the act of rhyme,
That lasts long beyond the works of time,
Only to form an outline,
Of this long dark silhouette of mine,

Shaded with uninterrupted darkness,
Filled with ample sadness,
In which everyone shows a slight cynical happiness,
Only to watch me tear out my balding tresses,
Just to add color,
To this fading dark silhouette of mine,

Each darkened unhappy detail,
Often shown only when my life has been derailed,
Infinitely shown in abstract detail,
By which mouth I can't tell,
Only to add depth,
To this vanishing silhouette of mine,

But all of these dark lines,
And all of these lying rhymes,
Only show what I saw the whole time,
This eroding silhouette,
This dead decaying silhouette of mine.

Teachers by Emmanuel Antonio Andrew "Drew" Edwards-Smith

Linoleum tiles,
And incandescent lights,

Unordered rules,
With half broken people for mules,

Cleansing sterility,
Amongst my infinite immunity,

Of ever extending times ensue,

Ringing bells,
As teachers yell,
"Come back its time to learn",

But from what I year,
I only learn,
That my education is mine to earn,

So while they waste my time,
As though they're always lyin,
About everything they say to me,

And when its my time to shin,
Around a quarter to nin,
I'll see them almost endlessly,

Then I figure,
Oh its not a hinder,
When a teacher yells at me,

Because even I can see,
They're only helping me,
Be the best I can be,

So I salute you,
My teacher of mine,

For taking this time,
From eight to five,
To help me with this rhyme,

And maybe one time,
When someone else is reading these lines,
They'll thank this wonderful teacher of mine.

The Mirror by Emmanuel Antonio Andrew "Drew" Edwards

Who is this ghastly impersonator,
In my bathroom window,

He looks like me,
And acts like me,
Yet he is only in my window,

His fingers are long and defined,
Like rabid hooks attacked to a fishing line,

His arm looked so ghastly and narrow,
Like he was empty and held no marrow,

His body sagged under the conformities of its weight,
A little too much,
And a little to late,

His face looked so horrifying,
As if it had been carved out by a masked killer using a butcher knife,

His gnarled unrecognizable fingers reached up to his face,
As if it were almost impossible to believe,

He looked like I,
And I like he,

And finally the realization of the truth dawned upon the both of us,
That the other person the reflection was ourself,

We looked so ghastly and so empty inside,

Then his eyes opened wide,
As he reached out for the serrated knife at his side,
And held it at ready,
As his eyes steadied,
So dark and gloomy as can be,

Then without a doubt,
With a silent shout from his mouth,
He shoved the blade through the glass,

And as my life flashed past,
I looked as his unsteadied mask,
As he wailed upon the glass,

Shoving the slick knife through and through,

And when he had finally been exhausted,
He looked upon my dark eyes accosted,
And raised a gnarled finger at me,

"It is over you wretch,
You have no life to catch,
As I trample on thee,

And when I'm finally done,
I'll stop at none,
Until I am finally free",

Then his breathing grew haggard,
As back I staggered,
And the mirror lay shattered,
With my chest impaled with a dagger,

From then I knew he was real,

He was real as I,
Though I had forgot about nigh,
So when I had come to high,
He was ready to drop the die,

And seal me,

So then I realized,
That this was his plan the whole time,
To take this wretched place of mine,

Then his grin grew,
As he stepped through,
The gaunt ghastly look gone,

Then he stepped on past,
As I took my last gasp,
And my reflection too my place in time.