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….

An art piece by the artist, God who named it, Osiria Rose!

When I see stuff like this I can’t help but think how artistically incline God is.

It almost makes you wonder if he was in that sense neurotic. Neurotic to the point to where His passion of creating beauty was is life.

And when I mean beauty I mean beauty in general. Why else would he create such a beautiful soul named Jesus.

Just think he had the whole universe as his canvas. He was the original artist. And we all have the pleasure To Witness the largest art Piece ever created!

My poetic thoughts

Chris Brown Don’t Judge Me Remix of the “The Creator” By Nelvin Ray Love

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!

Feet Bruised!

Feet bruised in sandals complimented with a reddish tone, skin damaged with a spirit big as stone, determined to become a thief of the character, while wearing a tunic that was woven in one piece, without a seam…

So it seems to be a painting of a war piece, backed by an infantry of prophesy to battle hate, and demolish hypocrisy, that was the philosophy no need for Socrates…

So you see… it was he who split the sea, his beliefs spit on by those that disagreed, although his intentions were low and meek, now on bended knee, the emotional teaching broke waves like an ocean, injecting a poison in the form of lecture, that spoke of the raptures people begin to take heed overwhelmed with grief, dancing with sin which introduced by his friend drunkenness; which feel in love with foolishness, in which gave no meaning to the term, soberness…

Now he has control of this, loose bowels, take a piss to release the non-sense, forgive my language knowing this is the end, I’m over this plant like earth; I could end it all right now with a slit wrist bleeding melody of pain on the piano keys the choir slowly plays a violin, when approached by a spirit that told me his feet were bruised in sandals complimented with a reddish tone, skin damaged with a spirit big as stone, who was determined to rob my character…

So you see… he recruited me with in his infantry to fulfill prophesy against hate and to demolish hypocrisy and in return he touches me in the most unconditional way, and redirects my life, I would say…

Converted with in belief I stared into his passion of Christ introduced has the Son of God, who came from the womb of Mary, whom hanged from the cross nailed, and buried within a rock of stone…  Jesus Christ!

Consensual Music

The sense of urgency brought me to a place where the melody played a passionate tempo slowly releasing a snare…

The touch opened notes that seeped through my skin drowning and gasping for air, I became confused

 I began to tremble out of nervousness, spilling and staining ink while creating obsessive sheet composition.

The percussion of my heart started to beat rapidly conducting an orchestra that displayed a show for the audience of emotions that stood and applauds…  

I’m lost in you to the point that your magnificence is displayed and distorted with the view of you. In a musical way…