Speak To Me

*Disclaimer: This poem reflects one of the problems I see in todays era. Of the many...*

“Please speak to me....”

Because currently I have been ghost, and I have tried to do the most and still you all ignore me. Yes I may not be as cool as you but I swear I have only a little bit of swag. Yes maybe my stomach is big like a punching bag, or my eyebrows are so long you can’t tell if I’m sad or mad. But I ask you. Is that the only difference between me and you? Because granted I may not be cool, shit I may even be home schooled, but I am not a ghost. I’m not dead like a lawn post. I’m not as invisible as a desert coast. I once used to thrive. Damn I used to be so alive.

And it sucks because when you acknowledged me it would only be to whop my ass. It would be to pick me last. It used to only be when I walked alone in the rain; that was when the insults didn’t shoot bullets into my brain. Those were the days when girls didn’t leave my shirt stained...with a broken heart. The days when I was wet, but I wasn’t soaked. Days when I wasn’t the butt of somebody’s joke.

Every night as I lay in bed I cried...I contemplated thoughts of if anyone would care if I died. And one day I stopped to frown, damn... I broke down. In the pool of my slit tears I split my years of depression length wise, because I knew on the inside no one would care. And in my seat of tiles and shattered glass, I knew that even if I screamed...you wouldn’t be there.

Because, you weren’t strumming my pains with your fingers, you weren’t singing my life with your words...but you were killing me softly with your silence. And all I asked....was that you speak to me.

Speak to me. Just say a word to me so I can feel...something. Because right now the silence is unbearable. I can’t stand the demands of my mind. I can no longer withstand the time that goes by. In silence. Because you can save me. You can release me from my struggles and pains. You can keep me out of my own brain and the thoughts of blade glides and contemplating suicide. Your lips can be my cure. If only you would...speak to me. If only you would take in a breath and say one word, I’m not asking for a conversation or phrases I’m asking for just one word. And if you understand now why I cried and if you can now comprehend why I died, you should know you could have saved me by saying....hi. You could have saved me by not just passing by.

But you have yet to realize I am gone. You haven’t seen that I have truly become ghost. Because I now am what you wanted me to be, and as I speak and preach this from my stage of classrooms, hallways and school busses you....only feel the cold chill of my spirit, can you feel it....I mean damn these are my words, can you hear it?

Because now it’s too late for you to...speak to me.

Because you killed me.

With your silence.  

-Moises Seraphin

Does Pain = Love

What is pain….What is joy. What is that feeling I can no longer feel from the numb of a tired soul. And through the silence you expect me to thrive. And through the pain….you think I should survive. After all the tears I’ve cried you wouldn’t care if I was even alive. And my story hurts more than my dreams. My tale sails to the deepest pits of betrayal. My memory…is a nightmare created by what I once called l.o.v.e.

Her name….was beautiful. Majestic joy and for her, I once had love. I once had flowers in the evening. 2 or 3 one dollar carnations of joy. I used to cook, in the morning and eve. I used to listen at night, to her M.Night Shamalan stories of her day. I used to kiss. In bliss I missed…when she would be at work or gone. Because that’s how a man is supposed to treat his girl. Right? And she… used to have a heart. My love once created sparks. And her smile….used to be real. But after I got tested I began to steadily wake up from my fantasy and notice the small things that never where. Like the 10 missed calls on her phone, the carnation filled trash or that sour smell of another mans cologne. I have awaken from the dream because of he. And he is not me. But I have been faithful. I have tried through her lies and now I despise the thought of ever saying I loved her. Because what she got from he…..that std…..she gave to me.

What is  love?

My mom was my mother. My mother was my protection and joy. When it was cold she would hold me with love above my crib…until my crib became too big. When it was cold she would read me stories, sitting on the side of my new big bed. Until I became too old for those stories and my room didn’t need a light because I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. And even when she wasn’t by my bed I felt her love. When it was cold I didn’t always have good boots but she made sure I had shoes. When it was cold I didn’t always have a nice jacket but she made sure I had warm clothes. And I hated being the bum of the block so I did something about it. And when it was cold she began to ask questions of, “where did you get that from” or “who gave you that”. And the lies I told were too much for her to bare, so when it got cold she looked though my things and found my dope and gun. She kicked me out. And it was cold. I sat at the door crying and begging. Apologizing for my stupid mistakes and she…went cold. I banged on our door until I couldn’t feel my fingers or hands. Until my tears began to freeze. That night in the corner of an alley I cried. I froze and died….from the cold.

What is love?

I was his girl. For years I was his world. And when he went to serve our stars and stripes, I waited. I sat at home for months on end writing letters to him, because he and our son were all I had. I loved him. And at nights when I tossed and turned to his memory I would cry. Until he came home. With joy I held him when he came to the door. And with his new bottle, he held me. For weeks the tossing, turning and crying wasn’t me…but he. And when he awoke from his nightmares of war. He always went back, like a baby seeking milk to that bottle. Drinking more than a fish. And when I was fed up I told him to stop. The glaze rage in his eyes lit up. And he beat me. Under the spell of rage he began to question my love. Question if I was faithful. Question if my son, was also his.

And I couldn’t move. Because he had beat me…..with his love. So when I saw him pull out a gun through my swollen eye I screamed. I couldn’t control it by I did…And that. Was the biggest mistake of my life. Because that scream was a call….to my son. And seeing what he thought wasn’t his boy, he was raged. His eyes were flamed with so much rage. And I was laying in a pool of my emotions. I couldn’t… move. So when he shot my child…I trembled….when he put the barrel to his cheek and pulled. I felt his emotion mix with mine.

What is love?

We all…fall short. Fall short in our idea of what we think to be love. Some worse than others. And yet we all cannot define the word. The words you never or should’ve said don’t speak as loud as our actions. Because the plain truth is…some of us are ugly. Some of us void of any emotion and it is because of…neglect. Many of us are dirty and caught so deep in our baggage, we forget of those around us. We are so drowned in our fantasies of despair we miscomprehend the emotions that are meant to help heal us. The fact is, some of us are ugly….from the inside out. And if my scenarios or tales reflect memories of the past or future I beg you to define that 4 letter word. I beg you to hold its definition to be true. 

-Moises Seraphin

The Creation of Men

My Hero……is the ideal “Man”

Father, father father of mine. The greatest man I’ve ever known. And yet to some father isn’t a word that resembles hero. Father isn’t a word that shows love and kindness. To them father is the name…of a monthly check. Father is just another man.

So what are we? We are not being created but destroyed. Our brothers are sleeping in the streets. Our sons sit at home without a job. What are we? A better question is…what can we be? I see those before me as heroes. Creating a path from nothing and presenting me with an opportunity for greatness. Because before my days you couldn’t tell your son he could be more than just a resident. And for the future young ones there’s proof that they can become the president.

I miss my Grandfathers and Uncles. I miss the fathers from my youth. My thousand male parents who brought food home after working 18 hour shifts. My brothers of families who held hope and love even in the hardest times. My heroines that never tried heroin. And it hurts because my heroes are steadily dying off and being replaced with disappointment. 

Because I’m becoming tired of seeing boys remain boys. Tired of boys raising boys and not creating men. I was taught that a man takes care of his home. A man takes care of his responsibilities. A man….provides and loves.

But the problem is in this era there are plenty of 35 year old boys. And how can we expect a boy to raise a man.

So I tell my fellow men, to teach your brothers. Teach your boys, so we can stop this perpetuating the cycle of boys creating boys and never growing to become more than just a child. Tell these boys to get off the streets. Tell these kids to get off of these games. Tell these children to take care of their wives. Tell these adolescents to get a job. And most importantly tell these dads to become fathers and begin a new cycle…of creating men.

-Moises Seraphin

The Calling of Her Savior

She was young when she started. The premature virgin turned to over sexed hoe…yet she was too young. She partied every night in search of completion and a savior. So when she got a man who endured around she thought he was her world. She couldn't see a flaw in his, thuggish ways, until he began to say, "If you love me".

It started off with, "if you love me, you’ll buy me those jays", "if you love me, you’ll stay the night", "if you love me, you’ll kill for me", "if you love me, you’ll go on your knees for me" if you love me you’ll get on your knees...for my boy; and then maybe his boy”, "if you love me, you’ll stand here on this corner for a night". And he? He was supposed to be her...savior. But now she walks the streets and when she comes home 100 dollars short he beats her. The man that used to heal now causes the pain, but she can no longer cry because her eyes have bled before and now she is used to having the scrapes and bruises. She is used to being used and abused and her comfort comes not from the repetition but the constant incisions on her skin. From that blade crossing her arm or the needle giving an instant...release. So when she saw a package from “Family” she knew it wouldn't be a razor or a bag of that fine white so she threw it in the trash. But that night as she struck a vain for the last time and sat in the puddle of her blood she saw the package. With the last strength of her leaking weak arms she opened it and found that book. She flipped to a page and the only thing she remembered was a name before she blacked out. 

When she woke up she couldn't see but could hear the constant beating of the monitor...and feel someone holding her hand. Fading back in and out to that beep and that hand, but when she found the strength to open her eyes she realized that hand wasn't her mans...but it was that book. Doctor came in and whispered, "Welcome back to life". She asked, "How did I get here, and with this book?" Doc said, "Cops got a tip from a man that you would be dead in the room. When the EMTs arrived they thought you were gone, until they tried to take the book out of your hand. It scared them half to death. And through 4 crash-cards you never let it go."

When she was released she still held the book because he never came to see her. Not a visit or card, he never came. And when she came close to what she thought to be home he....was with her. The man she called love was with another, and put her above her. And as she walked away she had no idea where to go, she no longer had a savior or place to call home. The only other place she ever remembered by heart was no longer hers. But she didn’t have a choice. So she went to the address from the package. And when she got in front of her grandmother house she cried. She sat at the door too afraid to ring the bell and cried. She cried her eyes dry. And a tears… fell on the book. She opened to that page still highlighted by blood and that name. Out of her tear drop glasses she could see that name. That ever so faithful name....Jesus.

She felt a soft touch on her back and looked up to see her grandma. Her grandmother said, "He will never leave you or forsake you, and I knew....he was the only one who could save you. He can heal pain because he too was beaten and maimed and you can put it all...on him. He is life and love...and he doesn't fade." she stood and embraced her grandma soo tight...still crying.

"I’ll help you find my savior child...welcome home"

-Moises Seraphin

Flashes of the Night

“The words of an impaired poet…”

Out of the darkness. The flashes light up the sky. The silence of the night is interrupted by the speed of fast cars and…heels. The light taps of stilettos hitting the pavement from the flashy girls who pray the night to last forever. And yet in this moment I hear neither. I hear nothing. But I feel the bass of the Dj playing this song for the 100^th time.

And through the flashes of the club lights you see me….and her. She’s beautiful. Miss pink and lovely. My lips constantly touching hers . Holding her with a firm grip. Promising to never let go. 

Even when I stand to dance she joins, to compliment the beats and aid in this lonely moment.

Because she is a bottle. And her company never fails to entertain. Amplifying the flashes of the night. Making this moment last forever.

I thank her for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with… hopes and dreams. Later I will remember how I drank her. And it seems while under her bind the lights are brighter, and I am delighted by her company…until the morning.  

I am a captive of her taste, yet desolate as space and drinking her to the base. Shackled still and fighting with all might, yet feeling and feigning a drinks delight. Enlightened by the sights, and enchanted by the flashes of the night.

-Moises Seraphin

This Song

It seems this song reflects on vivid dreams. Dancing on memories of a past unseen by the eyes of none but they who were present. Can you feel the piano? Touching the keys brings back the fame and pains of experiences that remain forever frozen in time. Nights which last forever.

Not figuratively but in theory. Because I will forever replay the memories of those nights and will never forget the moments of...perfection. So though the nights have faded to be dates of the distant past, in theory they will… last forever.

In my mind of course.

And this song...Walks back on that sand. This song fly’s to never land. This song shows an image of you, them or us as we stand...in my dreams. Still captivated by the bliss of a subtle kiss or bathing ourselves in this joyful tune. Inhaling the melody and exhaling the chorus, yet being blinded by its ecstasy and praying this dream to be for us, and if not keeping its memory to never be changed and forever remain the same.

Singing this tune to the heavens above, knowing its notes are filled with nothing but love. And the speakers are loud enough to send it to the deep dark dens, to be sung by young women and men, only with the expectation or hope that this song…this precious soulful song…will never end.

-Moises Seraphin

Dear Love

“If I ever talked to love, the conversation...would go like this”

Dear...Love,

Its been a while. A long while.

 Love…where have you been. I realize now that you've been used and abused. When people say your name many of them have no idea who you are. Or the effect you bring. They use your name in vain because they haven't ever felt your presence. They haven't endured the peaks and lows of the journeys we've taken. Or the relationship we've had.

But Love I won't forget the pain you caused. I won't forget the nights of agony and tears. But out of our hard times I won't forget you. Because Love you had me screaming dreaming, feening and searching for the meaning of your name. And out of it I didn’t get anything but a reverse sign. Love you told me to go all the way the fuck back to square one. Not passing go, not 3 steps back, but back to where I began. And I was frustrated and angry at the dumb stuff you did because I knew it wasn’t you. Love you used to take care, share and stare into my eyes. You used to heal the maimed pain you caused but now you’re gone. You've drifted away once again. 

I want to get to know you again Love. From the beginning. From…Hello. I want to start back at those cheap super sized dates, and debates of who misses who more Love. Back to you telling me your name and having it skip through my mind all day on the squares of possibility.

There's so much I want to tell you Love but I'm afraid of the pain you used to cause. And everyone put you in the fairy tale category with Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny, so when I told them what you did… They said you weren't real. They said you were a figment of my imagination. And a letter to you would be thrown into all that North Pole mail… But what they don’t know is Love you are more than a person with a home address or cell phone, you are an emotion. A life altering experience that doesn’t lie like Redbull’s false wings, but helps us fly to the peaks of the sky, and though we fall, we have risen to the greatest sensation. And if we die, it will be from our journey of you; be it in peace or sorrow it will be from you…Love.

I know your busy skipping from heart to heart so I’ll leave you with this letter. And if you ever find a worthy heart and being to reveal yourself to me again...just know that I’ll be here. Patient. Patiently waiting to see you again.

Signed,

A Believer

-Moises Seraphin