On the edge of overlapping lives

Once an angel offered mankind a choice
to have power to destroy or
the power to create life.

At that time, there split two different lives
in which we are living happy, and
the other in which we are now.

No one knows how alternate they are,
but it’s an awful day for living and
a beautiful day to die.

Benyamin Bensalah


Ending envy

How I envy you all
Who can just ignore me,
Delete me from sites or apps,
Block my number and WhatsApp,
And see my face on Facebook no more
While I am glued, imprisoned with myself;
Not like you, I need to face me daily – again
And again feeling pity, disgust, nuisance, hate,
And weirdness, waiting eagerly my disappearance.

Benyamin Bensalah



What a bitter joke is the life!
Would it be better without lies?
So many lies that God forbidden,
Those which are or not deeply hidden:

The lied “ailuvyoes”, the lied “aimfines”,
The lying poetries and stolen rhymes,
The lied self-esteem, the lied moods,
The lying virtues under my hooves:

Are all lies.
Are all sections that need sactions.
Are all lies.
And all are punishments themselves.

Benyamin Bensalah



This extreme boredom’s been following me since my young ages
like a jailed figure under either punishment or experiment
where the stimulated subject is in its own simulation
finding every possibilities to act for a fact
that he is still existing.

I’ve been imprisoned during my entire life even if differently
instead of celled walls, I fenced myself with books,
escaping the outside to inner-made worlds
of writers with the finest thinking
effacing boredom.

But with time even books started to bore me like movies and series,
everything built on the same structure and mechanism;
the so adored knowledge left me alone,
and started to bore me more
as if I knew everything.

Then, escaping boredom became a daily routine among routines;
I got a job just not to be bored between the walls,
at work, I stay the longest and do everything,
but I return every night to the same walls
of I am still imprisoned.

Grabbing the pen to write, boredom kills out my rhymes and virtues:
“Ah, I know these lines.” as if hearing the umpteenth remix
of a song that had kept playing for so long now,
so it became meaningless, awkward
a life in a boredom stow.

Benyamin Bensalah