What Is

What Is
by Beau Maysey


There is nothing in us today but the echoes of yesterday,

There is nothing for us to say but anything we so desire.

There is nothing in our way, we are heart-string marionettes,

But the thunder in our minds, turning into a blazing fire.

There is nothing in our world, but money stacked up into piles,

So command the business leaders from their luxury glossy desks,

There is something left untold in an eager man’s wiles,

There is nothing we can’t behold that’s hidden in secret smiles.

Everything is folding into a singularity,

Or is it just expanding to fit our personalities,

Is this reality before me, what is this place I see?

Is the mirror image tapping the glass, is it him that stares at me?

The only thing we know for certain, is that things are never clear,

There are no clear things we know; are things really ever real?

There is nothing in a shadow but the hopes we left abandoned,

There is nothing for us to hope for but the dreams we have imagined,

Is it monsters that we fear? Or just more people drawing near?

Monsters are only ourselves, with frightening costumes that we’ve fashioned.

Is this reality before me, have I done this all before?

Why should I have to wait to have to see what life has in store?

Where did all the innocence fly to, what if I want more?

Am I on the outside looking in? Have I been asked to come in?

There is everything to lose, if only we let it all go,

If just to step into the waters, if just to go with the flow,

There is nothing of interest in us, but the construction underway,

There is nothing on the horizon but day unfolding the Sun’s rays.

There is nothing to fear at all, at least nothing overall,

But the aching pains of scars left from relationship waterfalls.

There is nothing left around here, except for life as we know it,

We all have a superpower, but haven’t had the need to show it.

What if I want a chance? What if I need some time?

I swear I’ll give this all a try, if you just give me a glance.

There is nothing in between, but bridges of violin strings,

What is, is what sings.

Does it make sense? Is there meaning? Is it a mess unseen?

Will my worries gain wings, attack my skin, and start to sting.

I’m tired of the questions, I want a sure- fire truth,

I want to jump into a time machine and escape into my youth.

I want a lot of things, but there is one thing I have,

These poems, which hopefully, will help stitch me a path.