Playground (Dedicated to the Children of CT Elementary)

 I often contemplate, especially in times of struggle; on the past at times as if my mind is remotely set to play and rewind, consistently searching for that part in life, in which I was fine. And not fine in a physical sense; but in a place were the only worry I had at age 5yrs old was where I could find plenty grass for the grass-hopper to eat that I had caught on a leaf after playing Indians and Chiefs. I was an innocent child. I believe I stood about something feet… I’d hear my mother chant, “We must eat” with a plate of chicken, broccoli and peas in her hand which reminded me that life is a plate of journeys. I ate, even though I was not too fond of the peas I learned not to disagree, because disagreeing usually resulted in a beating.

 Alas, I am now only 8yrs old discussing life knowing this wasn’t it, and there was more to it, a playground artistically painted in the clouds where worries don’t exist and the extent of my childhood ranges from many known friends of playing baseball, and on occasion the baseball would get stuck on one of the twelve gates. I don’t see my parents much now, but one day they will have the pleasure of seeing this beautiful city that we live in now.

The Neurotic Discussion Continued

Since I posted the below article “The Neurotic Psychopath Poets.” I’ve got interesting comments of personal views that has personally inspired me in ways… if you don’t mind <<<<< Hopefully you won’t I would like to continue this topic on my A Poetic Discussion Forum.  Thank you! You guys are truly an inspiration in why I write!

Obsessions is poetry, and claustrophobia are the letters that are obsessive-compulsive to the outline of the words that come together to format a meaning; I’m a neurotic poet?

via The Neurotic Psychopath Poets.

The Neurotic Psychopath Poets

Artisticreligious

“I witnessed a beautiful picture painted in crimson, elegant and frail. The art of the painting was meticulous as if it was mechanically designed to intake deeply distresses, and pumped passion through its abnormal character.

Detailed with affection, covered in existence, representing a language that spoke with criticism…. Overwhelmed, I begin to sob; for the painting had reveled art in a way of life.” –Nelvin Ray Love

I had a conversation that went something on the lines of this: “I really enjoy your work as a writer, although I believe if you incorporate a spiritual message in your work, which will make your intentions even better.”

So let’s just say that conversation led me to a point of confusion questioning the whole idea of art being a part of religion… just because I’m religious. Does one have to paint a picture of Jesus in all his work because he is Christian? Or a movie producer films a murder scene, but cleans it up with a God given message.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, if you’re a religious artist so be it…

But I feel as though art is raw, and true to thought, and expressive of the artist; but has a religious person I tend to have a guilty conscience that continues to criticize my responsibility has one of “God creations”   “damn conscience”…

The general question is can one separate they’re spiritual/religious belief from art?

Umm…

I’ll answer that question in the word of Georges Seurat- “They see poetry in what I have done. No. I apply my methods, and that is all there is to it….

The Creator

I’m almost certain god created me in his image, because why else would I create a world that replicates my point of view of what I define beauty is.  Why else is it hard for me to control my passion and script every bit of my emotions publicly. It must explain the thunder in me that screams at times, but I know if I put more of a show on I will light up the sky with the hopes of Eve noticing me. I created you in my world and watched you develop so beautifully. I watched you closely as you would eat fruit from the garden, and how well your beauty would blend with the painted flowers and weeds that you would on occasion dance in. At times you would call me when you were down and when you would cry, secretly so would I, which might explain the rain of tears. As the creator I fell in love with my creation and couldn’t help to stand back in regret while you fall in love with Adam, but I do understand I created him as well and can only blame myself.

Homeless

You tell me that love has no home in your heart, because it tore your decorated walls of trust apart.

Distorted your beautiful flowers that you planted with passion, while the soil overflow with tears.

The fabric that you also call your skin has been unstitched, bruised and color fading.

Pieces of glass lie scattered on the carpet from the broken window, that has now distorted your view to see clear.

The pantry that once had food for your soul is empty with residue of pessimistic that the pest feed on.

The bathroom mirror shows a reflection of a person that resembles you; animation of a princess, but when the sun sets you’ve fallen in love with Shrek and your new name is Fiona, unattractive and love is the blame.

You tell me you could care less of love being homeless, walking the streets of broken attempts, falling weak of loneliness.

You even said that love could be sleeping under a bridge and you still wouldn’t give a shit.

But I question you and say what if love got hit by a bus full of passengers seeking it? What if love was trying to catch you again as you fall?…

and what if love was a puzzle that is trying to find the pieces to put itself back together?

What if love was me? Now I’m homeless!

My Infection

Staring at the fan turn in a motion that my life resembles, I begin to think while my body trembles. I start to hallucinate of a touch of air, which enters my soul and rapes my heart, in a way that is consensual. Ashamed of my encounter, I begin to bury myself under the skin that covers my emotions. I start to swim in an ocean of insecurity while drowning in a sea of me.  Blinded by it all, these tears clear my view of life. I begin to realize, I’m infected with the thought of you. I’m infected by your beauty, your being. I’m infected by your soft touch, your elegant skin. I’m infected by your fragrance that hypnotizes my senses with gorgeousness. I refuse to find a cure from this infection that has weakened my emotions.  Although weak and vulnerable, I smile at the thought of you. I smile because I call you my love…

Framing it

 The tables were dressed in white; while the crystal glasses were stained in wine.  Introduction at this event is not needed, as if these people with similar thoughts synchronized.  On the balcony covered in pasty clouds stood a man, who spoke of politics and slavery; his name, Abraham… Clear across the room the vibe of a movement sparked a dream that ended segregation; his name, King.  –Nelvin Ray Love

My Worst Enemy

My worst enemy, showed me a world full of fornication; a lust of fantasy. He tapped into my deepest thoughts, and distorted it with pornography.

My worst enemy introduced me to drunkenness; which drowned me in a sea of foolishness. He gave me no meaning to the term, soberness.

My worst enemy filled my soul with, rage, disobedience, which brought havoc & pain to the ones who love me. Destroying my family & killing a heart of a lady I once called, mommy.

My worst enemy led me down an avenue of broken dreams; surrounding me with sin, followed by a path of hatefulness.

My worst enemy introduced me to a person, I knew so well; his name; Lucifer, but he preferred, Satan; I called him, devil.

My worst enemy had me bound, in a cage of darkness, constantly beating my emotions, scaring my faith, & corrupting my beliefs; but when I thought my worst enemy had beaten me…… an old friend by the name of Jesus, would save me.

“Oh Lord I Pray; Forgive My Worse Enemy; Me”……

A Poem for the Time (Dedicated to the devastation in Japan)

This morning as I stepped outside, I met a lady, she was intriguing, as if I’ve known her my whole life, her skin beige as sand, her blue eyes match the sky; flowers are her passion; she told me all sorts of stories, like how she was involved with Katrina & those tsunamis in Indonesia; she paused to catch her breath, with a blank look in her eyes; she told me about Haiti, she became weakened with grief , she sat down…. She began to describe images of floating bodies, while panic starts to unfold; Tears flooding the streets that are marked with death. Languages mixed with English, Japanese, and Haitian, a culinary piece of human kind, “as she put it”. She became very emotional & dark, her tear drops begin to rain, but it wasn’t long before she would cheer up, with a smile bright as a rainbow; night begins to fall, she starts to fade, I couldn’t help but to know her name, she replied, Mother Nature. So I asked her why? She replied, God…

God has said in Bible prophecy that natural disasters would grow in frequency and intensity as the end of the age approaches—to shake people out of their complacency and lead them to seek Him (Matthew 24:7; Luke 21:25-26; Revelation 6:12; 11:13; 16:18).