Tonight is one of the nights –
I’m not open to hear wrongs or rights
about anything what’s going on,
but I could expect respect that I still carry on.
Some drinks are down on my throat,
some ethanol is pumpin through my mind,
some lines are too cloudy that I wrote,
but I’m still not acting like I do mind.
It’s still me, and I do like you –
why can’t you do the same though?
With infinite conditions, there’s none;
none matters, but it does when we’re gone.
Harvest the moments of the others,
you may get more care from them than from mothers
because every ape have problems,
but very few ones wait you at the bottoms.
I might write about things very deep,
but it’s still floating on the very surface;
you can freely call me a creep,
but I really mean every word that I can face.
I feel terrible every day;
you can compare it to some fuck’d up weeks
where you try every ways,
but things go like it’s been Greeks.
I lived the seven hells and heavens,
I lived with peace and almost all the weapons;
I know it when it never ends well,
and I know when you don’t even know what to tell.
But the drinks help me at some nights;
let me, this psycho just writes;
killing feelings that were unbearable,
wearing them sober even if unwearable.
Like the coat of solitude,
like the pants of tight social restricts;
I wore every way that’s rude,
but I’m still living – one of the addicts.
Like a dragonfly that lives only a day,
I live every day just as my last;
somtimes hunter – sometimes prey, it’s never gray;
I will end all like this night: in a colorful blast.
Benyamin Bensalah
01.04.2021
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