Some youthness’ dour or such to say
Since children mock; they cannot play
Since children hurt; they cannot feel
How painful is with what they deal.
Some shameless children can just flout
With shaming; t’is how they stand out
From those who simply are around;
Not knowing how; how deep’s that wound.
So- was my youthness, back in time
With the same struggled strife – child crime
As done or seen and rarely gained
Despite the time, the pain remained:
In the mindset, in the feeling,
In the core of my beleiving,
In the days of an adult
As having been in a cult,
In a jungle eating men
Like without like feeling them,
In no need to do that so
While they needed my help though
(Children are the worst animals)
Crippling men to be but gulls.

Benyamin Bensalah


Rescue call

I can’t expect rescue
I can’t expect care
But still I do respect you
And I do not really care.

Is it rhyming, is it good,
I am hidden under my hood,
Still I’m splitting just as rude
As I’m ruled by my mood.

Where’s hope,
It’s been a riddle,
I’m not dead, nope,
But I’m in the middle.

Is it rhyming, is it good,
Too much money too much food;
Of course I deserve no good;
I’m the drunkard of the neighborhood.

Upon a time I wished rescue,
and a sip of care,
I’d like to find them in you,
but no worries; I’m self aware.

Benyamin Bensalah



We are not children anymore,
no more teenager years;
however, everything’s the same,
singing the Beauty and the Beast,
hopes illuminating and fading
while the end is near,
a brutal, merciless end
where I’ve lived all alone,
and will die alone at the end.

Benyamin Bensalah


Devils may cry

My indifference surpasses Earth’s billions species,
my wild philosophies boil hotter than Venus,
my grief’s still colder than Pluto’s deepest valleys,
my carelessness embraces the whole space;
still, there’s a crying child in me
who doesn’t want more than being loved
and told motherly that this is your very place.

Benyamin Bensalah



Where it will be gone
my pain
when it leaves Earth’s surface
leaves my body
leaves me?

Will it feel alone
without me
like I myself did
all the time

Will it miss me
like I did miss care
in my life?

Will it miss itself
without me
like I did miss myself
all alone
on my own?

Wherever it will be
I’d like it to know
that it’s alright
and we did have
quite a road.

Benyamin Bensalah



Like a child in the highest unbearable fever,
Under the heat, but shivering in cold cover,
I’m wishing for care.

Those long, careless years behind me,
Graved, graved and graved inside me,
“I – I don’t care.”

Like a drill thrilling inside a small nut,
Only shivering emptiness remained in me, not
even “I don’t care.”

Even if it’s not spoken, but I cry for a hand,
Even if its death’s, but please pretend,
That I’ve got care.

Benyamin Bensalah



These furnitures are grotesque.
I see them around all day along.
They never change, they irritate.
They have no use.
Those wardrobes offer me no clothes to wear;
No reason to dress up,
No reason to look anyhow;
Yet they lock up clothes of no usage.
Those chairs are spiteful;
No one sits in them,
And call no one to sit;
Yet they are so many.
Those tables are horrid;
Half empty-half stucked,
And the whole thing is for usage;
Yet they don’t make me to put on them anything.
Those shelves are judging;
Holding those read and unread books,
And the thick dust on them all around;
Yet there’s no reason to approach the whole.
The desk, with the no use computer –
The stove, with the cold cole in it –
The cupboard with glasses filled with air –
The fridge that doesn’t open randomly anymore –
The carpet that detests the steps on it –
The mass grave of bathroom cabinets –
The insignificant pictures on the wall –
The wooden ceiling that just covers them all,
and this bed I am lying in with no use
Are just grotesque.

Benyamin Bensalah