Bad omen

What a dread dream I had as a child
to be once one of the dead poets
seeing no remedial meaning in life
as I’ve been followed up with bad omens.

Now, as grown up, I couldn’t be more childish
to think I could change those bad omens
trying to bring the never had happiness to others’ life,
only luring them to mourn one of the dead poets.

The sadness doesn’t come from my failure,
neither from that I’m alone,
but rather that I’m seeing those lives’ remedy
in my absence; as I was the bad omen after all.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.04.2020

Somebody wrote this

So many times trying to change,
shapeshifting, reforming, rethinking
from age to age –
How old I might be so far?
How many of myself have died,
then rejuvenated again and again
already?

I wonder if there’s anyone who could tell me,
from my former lives
that who I am for real. –
All those people knowing someone,
then losing me
in great disappointment
has pity for a me.

Now, I am myself, but just for a while,
failing myself again and again. –
I don’t know who I am,
I don’t know who I was.
Just being, rebeing,
rebelling, deceiving
every body, including a self.

I wish I could be in war against myself,
so, at least, some of me could win,
but I hold no one in my hands,
inside me.
It’s empty,
and it was empty
for longer I could remember.

I wonder whether there was
a child of me,
an honest lover,
or anybody with belief
in that there will be a day
there will be more than a day
to be and die as some one.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.03.2020

A glance in purgatory

“Benyamin, I want you to speak.”
Still darkness and silence.
“Tell me what is wrong.”
Sounds are reflecting from the deep.
“I won’t give up on you. Speak.”
My inhumanity is awakening.
“Are you listening to me?”

*I am obliged to listen since you speak.*
“Your stance is hurting me.”
*I am sorry?*
“What is wrong?”
*What is wrong?*
“You are not the same.”
*I am who I am.*
“…”
*I just need a little silence.*
“…”
*Don’t worry about me.*
(Neither I do, nor about you.
Also, if you can’t give up on me, I can do.
As well as on you.)

Is there any regret?
*No.*
Emptiness.

“Benyamin, I want you to speak.”

Benyamin Bensalah

11.10.2017

Do Not Open

Guilt-pushed wet pillow on my face;
What have I done? There’s no trace,
But there must have something happened,
There must have something happened.

I don’t know much what’s going on;
I have no goal, no role I could be living on,
I’m just surviving day to day,
Day to day.

But today – tonight, I opened a file;
Full of photos of a guy with the same profile,
But he is stranger to me,
Stranger to me.

On the photos, he was with a girl;
I would lie if I say I don’t know her,
But I can feel nothing,
I can feel nothing.

I don’t know who’s that guy;
He was so happy, but how and why,
How is it possible,
It’s impossible.

I don’t know who they are;
Why are they so bizarre,
They are a copy of me,
Were a copy of me.

That guy was in love with her;
Then, why I can’t refer,
What’s going on,
What’s going on.

You hurt and destroyed her;
But I didn’t even know her,
No, it’s all your fault,
It’s all your fault.

I’m guilty and for sure I’m crying;
I wish I could be faster dying,
Rather than feeling guilty,
While it wasn’t me.

I don’t know that guy, nor myself;
That girl must have left our self,
I am alone with my pain,
Who am I? I claim.

I sleep some nights or glance my eyes;
It happens: everything resets as lies,
But I didn’t mean any of that hurt,
I should have put out an alert:

Don’t approach; I may be fine today;
But I’m a new person every day,
Making you happy for a while,
Then, putting you into a file
With a lost profile
That comes out rarely
Feeling guilty,
Unhealthy,
Crazy.

Benyamin Bensalah

29.02.2020

The Mark of Death

It comes with big fireworks of happiness
Like an extra life that revives you at the final battle,
Like a compliment that makes believe in yourself,
Like an advent of a person with radiating hope.

Euphoria – what it’s called – catches your moments,
Paints everything with eternal-like vivid hues,
Triumphs your whole past in a meaningful-like song,
Brings you a goal that has never existed.

Then, it just stops the time around you,
Lets you see the grey cloud of the present,
Hear the empty vacuum of the past,
Get dizzied by the blur of the future.

It holes your soul with the deepest pit
That eats up all the hopes remained or desired,
All the energy left leaving only fatigue,
All the senses that might make the soul living.

The Mark of Death spreads its curse all over the body,
Including the soul that just sits, lays inside,
Letting the whole world behind half-living,
Accepting death already by my side.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.02.2019

A stupid, ghosted poem

My very words and mere existence fall through on her
As if our whole story, my whole life would have been a dream.
Likely, my dreams of our children and our happy years
Are seen just as real and reasonable as her silence now.

I’ve been loved with a philosopher stone, a mere image
That accepts and calls for admiration, but returns none.
This is warming for the heart for a while of the longest second,
But it turns the lover into a faded image as well.

Staying dead amongst living knows nothing more painful
Because this is how I feel living in your silence.
The thoughts numb the head trying to solve its reason,
But deny every possible explanation.

Either she’s a ghost or I am a fantasy of a dream,
This is more heretic dealing than dividing by zero.
I don’t know who I am, where to belong, while
My world is stuck in your infinite hollow.

Whether you see me, whether you hear me
You don’t recognize my being, and neither I do.
The problem is, while I’m searing from this feeling
That you caused me, I’m still here to love you.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.01.2020