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


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,

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

Benyamin Bensalah


Grey Rays

Grey-blue pastel strokes brush the sun behind,
Leaving just enough light to the ground
To see the city, see the city with its toxicity;
Concrete jungle with vrooming sounds,
Soulless machines, and in them souls with wounds.

There’s no greenness behind greyness,
But meaningless parks as mere illusions
To keep our primal instincts alive –
Keeping them machine-fed, coma-like.
The art of nature’s hard to realise.

Parks are the new heart of the city,
Us – not even feeling pity,
Going there to fetch our nurture,
So-called being in the nature
As hypocrite machines.

Is there other machines lying
To themselves as we do –
By laying plants surrounding
While concretely it’s not
The green we went through?

How come then on the sky,
On that grayish sunbeam
Made of pastel and bluish dye;
We’re still a part of this sight,
Human machines as we are.

Benyamin Bensalah


A bad poem

It may be a bad poem,
Written by a bad poet.

It even shouldn’t be written,
Or by this token must be hidden
From everybody;
Since it strives to sell a story,
Led by stupid melancholy
Of a depressed bloke,
And his prose:

“I hate the life and I’m alone and blabla.”
Is this how he cries? Caramba!
Better stories come from ma grandma.
He is also very proud of being pathetic,
Having no feelings, nor ethics..
But seeing the fact that he cries,
He must feel the pain or he lies.
“I never lie!” he shall go.
Having a kind of ethics.. Bingo!

At this moment, he starts that he knows..
That this story sucks and blows..
And it shouldn’t be written at all..

Benyamin Bensalah