Children’s Book
Benefique: The Star That Could
An illustrated story by Roskamala
Benefique: The Star That Could is an illustrated children’s story about a little boy who lives on a star that does not glow. Determined to reach the moon and find friendship, Benefique tries one idea after another, discovering that even the attempts that seem to fail can carry us somewhere unexpected.
Poetry
The Taste of What is
It is simply what it is.
They are plainly as they are.
I am simply as I am.
Sour or sweet—
It remains as it is.
Mend your textures to blend and obey.
Loving yourself is sin; indulgence the way.
You can’t, you shall not, you will, you try.
Enough of peace, denial disguised.
Salute the new phase: Exhibit 379.
The lion inquires; your truth is a lie.
Absolute facts, reform, erase.
Ring the bells—service disengaged.
Majority dictates what normal must be.
Angels must die to uphold duality.
Power dims, devotion rewired.
A broken machine, only this dose survives.
I am as I am, farewell is grace.
Silence and noise interlaced.
Peer into the lake, still and clear.
I count the remnants, then disappear.
Piano strings remain the same.
No surging highs, no sinking lows.
Just whispers of harmony, nothing more.
Mend your textures to blend and obey.
Loving yourself is sin; indulgence the way.
You can’t, you shall not, you will, you try.
Enough of peace, denial disguised.
Angels Must Die
Overture
Everything is the same, yet completely different.
The day spins, repeating its circle without defense.
I sit at the edge of the stage—assigned A5.
Aurally and visually stunning, I am moved.
No one replies.
Act I
Balancing not to fall remains a myth.
The harder you push, the more it slips.
The sun ascends.
The sun descends.
Birdsong stirs the veil.
The art of existence
is to unfocus and exhale.
Act II
Love and longing—do they contradict?
Are they aligned, or do they dissolve when mixed?
Definition remains perception from your seat.
The roles we play in this theatre
are the lines we read.
Act III
Truth or lies?
Which do we choose?
Truth cuts.
Lies comfort, keeping us soothed.
As children, we rehearsed virtues,
memorizing each final touch.
And as adults, survival bends goodness
into the illusion we clutch.
Epilogue
Expected shows,
same acts, same theatre.
In a sea of unfamiliar faces,
we trust, we presume,
that our tickets await
for the next bows.
A Front Row Seat
The Whisper
One rarely understands how a vampire must feel.
Studies and myths crafted by observers fail to reveal.
Commentary reflects not truth, only perspective.
Are they entranced or simply dismissive?
Not what they are, but what we choose to see.
The Council
Vampires kill unethical, dangerous creatures.
A pyramid of needs, inverted. A cursed kind of hunger.
Restlessness retreats only when they are all burned.
All parties agree, the invincible meeting is adjourned.
The Member
A starved body returns after long, ravenous gatherings.
Glancing toward the maid—silently loud.
Each flavor needs its marinating.
Not eggs, but ash. Not heat, but fire.
The maid collects what she will cook.
From human to vampire, a shift without ceremony.
No second look.
The Vampire
Insights since 1431 remain, not to relive, only to observe.
The human-watching spot: breeze-filled, thoughtfully reserved.
Suddenly, a fine accidental cut in the kitchen. A perfect knife.
From nowhere he comes—The Count.
She is not the reason. Merely what keeps him alive.
The Animals
A silhouette consumed by flame,
is watched through torn walls, from safely hidden holes.
The picture is unclear, but curiosity makes us climb,
as if, for a moment, we could be heroes.
They kill the wrong one, yet still cry “righteous!”
Yelling as if they chant sacred vows.
Then silence.
Return from distraction.
The next meal is near,
and we must not be found.
A Vampire Cycle
Them
The soothing sounds of a butterfly garden
isn’t your world but theirs.
Shrapnel etched into the heart’s soft center
isn’t your world but theirs.
From arrival to the vanishing of a thousand faces
isn’t your world but theirs.
An ideal path tethered to a bright future
isn’t your world but theirs.
Secrets in plain sight—movement, stillness, silence
isn’t your world but theirs.
Stories told, stitched into your ears
isn’t your world but theirs.
The version of you they curated for display
isn’t your world but theirs.
‘The good one,’ born of gentle expectations
isn’t your world but theirs.
The guilt that haunts for choosing self
isn’t your world but theirs.
One sweet rebellion—
the permission to decide what enters,
that…
is your world, not theirs.