Hoppety voosh

Even my scars are from hard work,
not from blades,
I wear a wide smile all the time,
not crying for anyone,
my body is so pure and kind,
but my soul’s spoiled.

How to express I’m depressed?
I’m copying with happiness.
How to express I’m oppressed?
I can only flex.
Who would understand these all?
I’m in a constant fall.

I’m lost in a way that there’s no way;
I see colours, but everything’s grey.
I can say hey, but not tomorrow;
I am stucked up in my sorrow.
I would borrow… someone,
but… I’m already gone.

Benyamin Bensalah


Right to rewrite

Pocket poets have no good stories,

but what is a good story


We are none else more than fantasies

in some stranger’s fairy

to say.

So I’m happened no one sees

nay me, writing this story;

I’m just history.

Benyamin Bensalah


An Ocean in Red

Like the water needs the bed,

like it needs the gravity to stay there,

like it needs the current to remain fresh,

like it needs a biosphere to have a purpose

I am in need of your presence to enliven my planet.

Benyamin Bensalah


Pocket bard

It’s neither my pleasure, nor my style,
but I’ve been drinking for a while.
We already know it why:
some nights are just too heavy being dry.

I had been suffering and crying
even before alcoholic supplying,
but since I have it
I say: freck it.

I’m not looking for acceptance;
I hate myself even in this stance,
but surely I am passing time,
and I find words for my rhyme.

My dear Lord, Dionysus,
is tottaly not like Jesus;
he lets me do my own sacrifice,
and eases me directly by the price.

How should I thank him more
than just live and drink a bit more?
Life is hard even as a drunkard,
but it’s the life of a pocket bard.

Benyamin Bensalah


Evil within

I built the walls, burnt the bridges,
scorched the land, searched the witches,
ruptured the nerves, devoured the preserves,
starved the body, tortured the mind,
riped out the tongue, blinded the eyes,
left none behind, let none comeaforth,
I am alone, only of a sort;
still the enemy is knocking, mocking,
shocking, rocking,
burning, torching,
blinding, grinding,
hiding, overriding,
chasing, petrifying
within me
wherefrom I cannot flee
cannot feel
cannot live
cannot die;
and I just can’t…

Benyamin Bensalah


Cyanide questions

I’d be happy if I had some cyanide –
who wouldn’t be tho?
Is it a normal thing to think or I should hide
that I’m not enjoying the show?

Can I even ask questions –
are we really allowed?
There are so many absurd suggestions
nowadays, done by the crowd.

It’s been a long time that I can’t follow –
where is it going?
It’s one of the pills hard to swallow
I know, and the list’s ongoing.

I was born without my consent –
aren’t we all after all?
But it’s still me who’s out of my own content
like a soul stuck inside a doll.

I’d be happy if I had some cyanide –
would not be anyone if I hadn’t, tho?
The fuss of anger, “I hope you die”
hits me every time “Oh, me too, me too”.

Benyamin Bensalah