To my bulletproof face

Yes, I am depressed and I wear a smile,
Yes, I show my ugliness after a while,
Yes, I change my tones with everyone,
Yes, I am the ugly one.

Yes, I’ve changed my beliefs time to time,
Yes, I change my poems for a rhyme,
Yes, I’m doubtful and play narcissistic,
Yes, I am not artistic.

Yes, I’m a trash and I keep judging,
Yes, I hate myself and want loving,
Yes, I can’t stop thinking about sex,
Yes, I ruined every of my ex.

Yes, I’m active just because I’m bored,
Yes, I want my ego to be adored,
Yes, I am a mestizo and still racist,
Yes, I am a masochist.

Yes, I am all of these above,
Yes, I merit no sympathy nor love,
Yes, because I’m a hypocrite,
Yes, I am about to quit.

Benyamin Bensalah

19.02.2020

Freest state

Stack my years behind me and those in front,
Rush then with them to a battlefront
That ends in a mass grave.

Stack my years and throw them into fire,
Burning a forest if there’s no hellfire
Just to make a mess.

Stack my years I lived and set them
Like dominos, then let them
To fall apart.

Stack my years in a messy writing
Needing a thousand rewriting,
Then, just delete.

Do whatever you want, please,
Just make it end, please,
Please.

Benyamin Bensalah

12.02.2020

A decade prolongation

I am hearing
about suicidal feeling
from every corner,
people living on the border
of living and dead
being depressed.

I am also seeing
people monthly leaving,
but never disappearing
in suicide attempts.

I guess I’m not healing,
but I don’t get the feeling
of regularly trying to kill
the self.

I – once I tried it,
more than a decade behind it,
and I never tried it
again.

Because
when I tried it,
I was serious about it,
and I already died in it
and I cannot be revived
again.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.02.2020

Peter Závada : Maybe

maybe it’s only the care’s false glamour
to believe: it is good for someone that you are
maybe only for that you are in need of someone’s amour
to make yourself believe that still lovable you are

maybe you never wanted to find her
it wouldn’t even hurt you if you did not
now, as she could easily be yours, maybe
it’s more important that she can be lost

so that you no longer have to blame yourself
because nobody wins this euchre
maybe what hurts you is that she weren’t really yours
and yet, you could still manage to lose her

Benyamin Bensalah

01.02.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Péter Závada, “Tán” (2011).

Dead end

As my heart is still ribbed and robbed,
As my hand is still penly dropped –
By words, down on the paper,
By thoughts from a downer layer…

While enjoying life as a deadly drug,
While doing time by a languid shrug –
By God, I swear I am innocent;
By hazard, I may be evil or a saint.

As my hearten self is in daily oblivions,
As my drowsy heart-beats discharge ions –
By the heart’s sudden energetic spurts,
By them, last the lifer’s hurts…

While even my philosophy is dying,
While my old emotions leave their hiding –
By remembering Rome, a never seen land,
I wish for all its roads I know, to a dead end.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.12.2017