It’s not working well

It’s not working well…
My knees fell
To where
I had had a puddle.

It’s not working well…
In that puddle,
My soul should dwell,
But now, there’s a well.

It’s not working well…
In the well –
Deeping  until hell –
There’s no water.

It’s not working well…
From the hell,
Sounds come up to rebel,
Antipersonnel.

It’s not working well…
I’m unwell,
Infidel,
The well is my chapell.

Benyamin Bensalah

09.09.2018

Enraining

I’ve been in an acid rain.
From the start.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
Every drop falls.
Through my coat.
Through my face.
Into the heart.

I’ve been sitting in a pit.
It rains sadness.
Ha-ha, ha-ha.
Every drop laughes.
Into my ears.
Into my soul.
Through madness.

I’ve been waiting death.
To come.
Tak-tak, tak-tak.
I can’t wait.
In the years.
In the pains.
How long they last.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.11.2016

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

The mad poet’s planet

Have you met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness?

The early moon-day skies are mothering cries on the mad pallet;
the reddest rivers will green many bluish ideas on this sad planet
like half-blood titans descending into mortal hermit
with eyeing minds on the infinite skies without permit.

Virtually toxicated images are raising altar for madness;
oddly faced gods will have painted former multiverses
storing like imagined jpgs of beauts’ bare badness
with brute-looking pngs’ sweet kisses of sadness.

Two decades of megatons are whiting on the horizon’s garret;
a new simulation will take place with an unchanged habit
working with the same colors of the sad, mad, bad pallet
with drawing circles until the pocket poet’s on this planet.

You have met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.01.2020