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Best Poems Written by Auguste Romain Nyecki

Below are the all-time best Auguste Romain Nyecki poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Face to My Demons

At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.

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The Parables of My Soul

In the twilight of my melancholy existence, love savors its bravery, like a vulture allergic to the suspicious aspects of ephemeral glamour, in a final macabre choreography.
On the edge of the precipice of my dramatic choices, my sacrifices reveal the artifices of their curses, but also the selfishness of their spiritual benefits in the face of the imposture of the supposed crucifixion of Jesus Christ.
The eloquence of my silence allowed my innocence to resist the violence of arrogance.
The tyranny of hegemony and the xenophobia of foreigners breed racial savagery and imperialist barbarism, while Western supremacy is transformed into a burlesque comedy trivializing negrophobia.
Suffering generates sentences, but sometimes repentance opens the way to independence, so that insolence can never turn into condescension.
Between the medals and the funerals, between the reunions and the reprisals, battles grip the rudder of my destiny, with a range of tortures.
My emotions oscillate between devotion to justice and the promotion of disbelief, urgently seeking remission of my transgressions, before the purification of the flames of hell plunges my divine spark into the furnaces of illumination.
The liberation of my ambitions contributed to the strengthening of my convictions, so that my determination unleashed the full extent of my potential.
My distance from dementia is minimal, even if the angel of death exempts me for the moment from the penances of the eternal abyss, my blasphemies sow the seeds of a new hope.
The history of my people is the memory of its victories and the grimoire of its disappointments,
Despite the decline of the pharaohs, the savagery of slavery and the barbarity of colonization, she taught me saving lessons so that my Africanness could flourish throughout the Earth.
In the permanent search for truth and sincerity, I aspire to freedom, equality and fraternity,
To a serenity, far from the vanities that humanity loves to adulate to forget its fragilities.
Between my feelings and their punishments, stands the sanctuary of the last judgment, their compliments obscure the lights of my cosmic atom.
In the quarrels of my past, the aftereffects persist, recalling the rebellious periods of my tormented soul.
I will never trust human beings, even if immortal love challenges my conscience.

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OPPRESSION OF FURNITURE PROPERTY

Their philosophers dehumanized our ancestors.
Their missionaries demonized their humanity.
Their merchants made them chattel.
Whippings, rapes, amputations,
For the training of wild negroes who can be forced to work at will.
The expression of barbarism in all its splendor for all these bodies soiled by oppression.
From Africa to the Americas, they crossed oceans of blood and tears.
They suffered the yoke of white masters, cruel and soulless.
They were sold like cattle, separated from their families and their land.
They were exploited, humiliated, tortured, without ever losing hope.
They sang, danced, prayed, to resist the hell of the slave trade.
They carried tons of cotton, sugar, coffee, on their bruised shoulders.
They forged the history, the culture, the wealth, of their greedy oppressors.
They created art, music, literature, with their souls dazzled by the nightmares of servitude.
They gave birth to heroes, martyrs, geniuses, despite their lives destroyed by negrophobia.
They fought for their freedom, against all odds.
They faced violence, hatred, racism, with courage and dignity.
They claimed their rights, their identity, their pride, with strength and solidarity.
They have inspired movements, struggles, revolutions throughout the world.
They are the sons and daughters of Africa, the cradle of humanity.
They are the brothers and sisters of America, land of diversity.
They are the fathers and mothers of the diaspora, symbols of fraternity.
They are the ancestors and descendants of negritude, the expression of beauty.
Black in skin, but not in heart, they knew how to love and forgive.
White with rage, but not with reason, they wanted to dominate and exterminate.
Black and white, but no gray, they had to live together and accept each other.
White and black, but without hatred, they were able to dialogue and respect each other.
Even if the demons of xenophobia are immortal.
They suffered, but not in vain, they left their mark on history.
They dreamed, but not for nothing, they changed the world with their mark.
They lived, but not like dogs, they honored life with their mark.
They loved, but not without restraint, they illuminated love with their imprint.
What can we say about these men and women, who have given so much and received so little?
What should we think of these executioners and these victims, who took so much and gave so little back?

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The Drift

I had the opportunity to observe the transformation of men into women.
 I had the opportunity to witness the transition of women becoming men.
 I have seen the Republic of Enlightenment allow minors to have sex with people of their choosing.
 I observed women conceiving children without the presence of a man at their side for the sole purpose of benefiting from family allowances.
 I noticed that the Republic had undermined the paternal function.
 I noticed that the influence of sexual minorities was gaining predominance in a liberticidal society.
 I watched the state legitimize the deconstruction of the traditional family structure.
 I have noticed the demographic growth of single mothers.
 I saw the increase in femicide in a country that advocates gender equality.
 I noticed that certain feminist movements were becoming more and more radical.
 I observed that justice was becoming more lenient towards the convictions of people guilty of offenses linked to pedophilia.
 I have seen pedophile priests and rapist imams exonerated of their heinous crimes.
 I believe that the next humanist progress will be spectacular.
 My eyes will have seen everything in a few years of life on this Earth.
 Amid all this confusion, the God of the church’s eldest daughter remained silent in the face of her progressive transgressions.

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VISION OF A TORMENTED WORLD

The din of darkness,
 The cacophony of impostors,
 The symphony of ignorance,
 The decadence of progress,
 Colonial heritage,
 The empire of the pharaohs,
 The agony of the pyramids,
 The ordeal of free men,
 The heat of infernal furnaces,
 The burden of ancestral tortures,
 The cradle of humanities chained to hatred,
 The lament of immemorial torments,
 The tale of forgotten shadows,
 The macabre mass of intertwined destinies,
 The accelerated decrepitude of fallen hopes,
 The stigmata engraved on the parchment of time,
 The funeral howls of a persistent memory,
 The sepulchral embrace of an eternal night,
 The tumult of trials in the scars of history,
 The flashes of an untamed reality,
 The epic of souls thirsting for redemption.
 Proselytes and orators with fiery ideologies are ready to spark a conflict whose repercussions could shake the very foundations of society.
 Land of asylum, sanctuary of xenophobes,
 Doors of the chapels of drug addiction,
 The reconquest of frustrated nostalgics,
 The liberation of supremacist rantings,
 The silence of the proletarians,
 The promotion of social inequalities,
 If monotheism were of divine essence,
 Racism, slavery and colonization
 Were not going to be sanctified,
 In their so-called holy rags.
 The conspirators demonize the plots of the marginalized,
 The manipulators have an army of fanatical parrots,
 The future of the earth is punctuated by catastrophes,
 These madmen are already exploring the stars,
 There will never be peace on this cursed planet,
 The rich need the chaos generated,
 Through war, misery, corruption and plunder,
 The tombstones pile up,
 Taciturn spectators of human tragedy, erected in a landscape devastated by the ravages of ephemeral power and limitless greed.
 Political extremists and religious fanatics
 Preparing for the final confrontation,
 Africa will be the next global battlefield,
 Sub-Saharans think they are escaping the horrors of poverty,
 By crossing the Sahara on foot and swimming the Mediterranean,
 While the multinationals of the new world order take advantage to plunder the natural resources of their subsoil.

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Heavenly Portion

Happy the celestial spark which does not blossom in an impure body corrupted by the vanities of this World.
It remains pure and luminous, escaping defilements and harmful influences, which can tarnish the vital essence of any human being.
Her flame shines brightly, radiating goodness, wisdom and love around her.
Like a precious jewel, it remains connected to the universe.
She stays true to her inner nature, ignoring the fleeting temptations and frivolities of the material world.
She is like a twinkling star in the dark, guiding those who seek truth and inner peace.
Her selfless love and unconditional compassion transform people's hearts and make them realize the beauty of simplicity and authenticity.
She knows her journey is one of constant learning and spiritual evolution, and she embraces each moment with gratitude and humility.
happy is the conscience that refuses to merge into the darkness of ignorance,
She remains eternally alive in the memory of those whom she touched with her grace and her discernment.
Its lights pierce the borders of time,
Inspiring damaged souls and illuminating enlightened minds, even after his passing.
She guides the lost and the afflicted to the fountains of truth.
His benevolent presence leaves indelible marks,
On those who crossed his path,
She seeks neither glory nor recognition in this dimension,
His happiness lies in harmony, peace and detachment.
Trials do not frighten him,
She knows they're part of the journey,
Each catastrophe represents for her, a chance to accelerate the release of the potential of whoever is her host.
She uses the chaos of adversity to absorb energy from the gloomy whirlwinds of fate she controls.

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THE MURMURES OF THE FIELD OF MARS

They were exhibited as strange curiosities,
They all had a face, a name, an identity on this land soiled by negrophobia.
They looked without seeing, their eyes lost in the ruins of their humanity violated for centuries.
In their iron cages, they dreamed of elsewhere, where the sky opened wide, without bars, without lures.
They spoke without words, with abrupt gestures.
Their voices, a dramatic memory of the atrocities suffered in the Caribbean.
They no longer remembered an unfettered life.
Their suffering chattered under the feet of colonial France.
They stood there, like specters from a bygone time.
Their stories engraved on their scarred bodies on the slave plantations.
Each scar was a dramatic story, a test, a penance to overcome.
Every blank stare, a question, a truce, a wall of victim wailing.
Prisoners of this paradise obscured by the slave lights of colonialism.
Each tear shed was a prophecy of the future horrors of Françafrique.
These men, women and children torn from the wilds of Africa flourished in the nightmares of an empire in decline.
Under the weight of Negrophobic oppression, these broken souls clung to every bit of their Africanness.
In each fight, a spark, a resistance, a flame, burst from their insides, to break the chains of servitude.
They were kings and queens from great African dynasties.
They have been reduced to shadows, contrasts and vulgar chattels to be slaved to without limits.
Their dreams were shattered by the code of indigenousness and the charter of imperialism.
Races in the plains were exchanged by the legitimization of colonial pacts.
They stood proudly, despite the weight of the chains, defying the Parisian grayness, the winter, the snow, the rain and the rats.
Their cries, songs of hope, hymns to life, calls for love, freedom, equality and fraternity.
They were irrefutable proof of a forgotten glory.
To recognize in them, not beasts, but human beings with universal aspirations.
They were the voice of the voiceless, defenseless, a mirror held up to our own existence.
A reminder that life, in all its splendor, was not limited to barriers, to the tyranny of fear.
They were, in spite of everything, silent spectators, of the lost greatness, of the wonderful world with the majestic pharaohs,
Where man and animal shared the same enclosure, the same soil, without domination, without combat,

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I CHOSE

I chose to write,  
For all those torn-off branches,  
For all those scarred backs,  
For all those dehumanized bodies,  
For all those centuries of persecution.  

I chose to read,  
To deconstruct racialist concepts,  
To destroy the carnivorous chains of slavery,  
To desacralize the supremacist missions of colonization,  
To uproot the alienation installed in my consciousness, brutalized by imperialist Westernization.  

I chose to educate myself,  
To denounce the negrophobia of the Republic of Enlightenment turned slave trader,  
To challenge the heirs of the enslaving empire of racist philosophers,  
To never forget the bestiality of the Code Noir,  
The savagery of the slave trades,  
The barbarity of human zoos,  
To never erase from my scorched memory the drownings of black bodies.  

I chose to turn off my television,  
To no longer listen to parrots singing the praises of xenophobia,  
To no longer be imprisoned by the conspiratorial diatribes of the fascist fanatics of the far right,  
To no longer watch the privileged squabble while fattening themselves on the taxes of the proletariat,  
To no longer pollute my mind, tormented by the misery of the cradle of humanity.  

I chose to fully embrace my Africanness,  
To never say that my ancestors were Gauls,  
Like those domestic blacks who champion the celebration of republican hypocrisy,  
To never curse Africa in my heart,  
Like those traitors who participated in the slave trades, slavery, colonization, and neocolonization,  
To never sanctify the banana republics of the sphere of influence of the so-called homeland of human rights,  
Which drives thousands of Sub-Saharans onto the deadly paths of clandestine migration,  
To never place myself on the same level as those racist, racialist, supremacist, and eugenicist complexes,  
Who sustain vile theories about the utopia of racial superiority.

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THE CRADLE

I am a child of war, misery, anger and suffering.
 I grew up with sadness, uncertainty and anxiety.
 I took refuge in solitude to avoid human bestiality and its hypocrisy.
 My distress illuminated the darkness of my weaknesses.
 I am forged in the burning furnaces of struggle and survival.
 In my veins flows the impure blood of slaves, riflemen and resistance fighters.
 My gaze carries the weight of the pain of my color and the age-old injustices of my oppressed people throughout the Earth.
 My persecuted skin is the cemetery of the scars of battles, trials and sacrifices of my ancestors dehumanized by supremacist slave traders and racialist colonialists.
 I am the bitter fruit of a continent nourished by fratricidal conflicts, genocides, civil wars, coups d'état, dictatorial excesses, tribal hatred, treachery, corruption and neocolonial stratagems.
 My memories are horrible nightmares, broken fragments of all the horrors my eyes have seen.
 My mind is a battlefield where truth, justice, liberty, equality and fraternity are expressed without hindrance.

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The Flames of The Street

Love is life, suffering, sacrifices,  
The exchange of glances, sometimes tinged with hypocrisy,  
Tears wiped away, gestures that fade.  
Hearts harden with every argument, every scream.  
In the gut, pain is engraved.  
It’s a battle, a struggle, a never-ending war,  
For honor, for pride, for a tumultuous future,  
Where you cling to the other like a certainty dusted with doubt.  
Love is that flame that refuses to die.  
It’s a hymn to life, a refusal to bow,  
Under the weight of trials and painful betrayals.  
Love is holding on, staying the course despite an accumulation of intimate shames,  
When the world pushes you to lose your faith.  
It’s that strength, that rage that guides you,  
Love is never giving up.