Verses of Love

If you asked me what your name was when we met, I would have said beauty. Because Beautiful is what I called you long before you told me your name. And back then my two words would have been, “Good Morning, Afternoon or Evening” because I trembled at the thought of saying anything less than what I envisioned in my dreams.

You see, I spent hours contemplating the words and phrases it would take to make you mine, and yet in your presence I was speechless. I was mute, I rebuked every thought that came to by brain, I was frozen and pained in the sight of your perfection. And yet as we first spoke my responses came natural as if written by the most eloquent poet. 

But what you don’t remember is that sprain or the way my heart began to feel pained. You saw me playing it cool, but inside I collapsed at the sight of your smile. I was intimidated by your swag and your style.... My heart skipped beats from gazing into your eyes. These were just few of the emotions that jolted me on the inside. But this wasn’t the day I died.

You see, that was the day I came back from hours of dreaming, planning and bore the contemplation of grabbing a meal late or even having just a simple first date. And before you said the words “I will”, my heart stopped, and on your clock it would’ve been merely a few seconds, but to me it was an eternity. Because I asked as a joke, never thinking you would even possibly say yes.  Yet you said yes, and I felt the words running into my chest. I lost my breath....and momentarily I died. If you looked close you would see I partially cried. And yet more than ever I felt alive as I said, “Does tomorrow at 8pm work?”

Date number 1 was one I will forever recall, mainly because there was no awkward silence. I do remember being upset at that one comment, that one inclination that maybe you weren’t exactly the girl of my dreams and it was when you said you didn’t believe in love. Out of confusion I found the words to go to the word and show you verse 4. Because verse 4 was the beginning of our chapter, it was the beginning of our love and after god there is nothing above love. And as our night became the morning I remember your smile as I ended the argument with, “Well if you don’t believe in love, I have to welcome you to my fairytale”. And our night was complemented by a gift. I mean a kiss. Another reason to say I’ve felt the lips...of an angel. Followed by...”Good night”. Which was followed by your mother looking through the screen saying “OH Oh, sak gen la”

Through time you presented the quintessential picture of what a queen should be. Reflecting verses 5 through 7. Because before I let you meet my mom and dad, I had to introduce you to my God. And even though I know that I’m not that good, I know that I serve a good God. Because unconditional love comes from the one above and he is the only one who can teach me how to love you. I know that I am just a man, but if we stand on his word we can grow forever together. Yes, we can grow together forever.

You are my best friend and my sun. I knew from the first time that you cooked, diri sous pwa, bannann peze, griot ak pikliz that you were the one. And when I got down to one knee I knew you would fulfill verse 8.  Ever since day one I knew we would make it to day two......and there was no doubt that you would be the one to say I do. Because in you I saw 1^st Corinthians 13 and it was love. I’m taking from verses 4 to 8 with you matching everything God said you would be, because love is patient, kind, doesn’t envy, boast and isn’t proud. Love doesn’t dishonor, isn’t self-seeking, not easily angered, keeps no record of wrongs, doesn’t delight in evil but in the truth. Love always, protects, trusts, hopes and preserves. Love never fails. And love...is you.

I’ve searched high and far for the rule book to love, but I’m afraid some of the pages are torn out. So with our vows we can rewrite the rules together. Just us, and by that I mean You, Me and God. So let’s rewrite the rules of love.... Starting from verse one.

Moises Seraphin

Stop The Noise

Began: Nov.2010

Completed: Mar.23rd 2011

Stop... Stop the noise throbbing in the back of my brain.

Stop the letters from coming together to say words I should have never said. Instead replace this noise with the voice of another. Because sometimes I regret the fact that I was pained. My heart was sprained... wait no it was maimed. I constantly felt cold rain. Poured my heart down the drain only to be stained with disappointment.

And this noise...still pains my brain. This noise echo through my mind with the words that I fear I can never say again for fear of tears.

All I want....is for it to stop. Because if it doesn't my brain will pop from the hot moments. The fire and desire I used to require. How I was inspired to be higher...and to dream. And it seems that in my dreams I still live in the fantasy moments of living on fake mile and seeing the fake smiles.

And yet even in my dreams I still scream because it was all... because of me. Supposedly I'm the reason it was never meant to be. Can you see....the noise? Can u see the memories of regret being thrown against my brain? Can you feel the blood rain of a heart that now cries and mourns the part of me that's died... on the inside. And his memory is being broken against my skull. The pictures are being burned in what once was a flame of something else.

Can you....stop the noise? Can you turn those letters into figments of my imagination?

Can you stop me from saying I loved you.

-Moises Seraphin

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