Walls

Walls

by Beau Maysey


I want to rip past this computer screen, it doesn't help, is what I mean,

It doesn’t tear across my Writer’s Block, it only serves to remind me of the clock.

It won’t push me forward, I can’t even use it to fall back on for support,

It’s a blank wall, and a mirror of my own thought process,

Moments, fading as ashes would, are here, then gone; time holds me hostage.

I want to sleep, I want to have fun, but I guess that’s a challenge for everyone,

Why do I need these words to spill on the page, it’s not as if anyone reads them anyway.

What will I inspire, with a call- to- action? I guess everyone wants self- satisfaction,

They don’t have to act, but it would just be nice, to see that this effort’s not wasting my life.

I need fresh ideas, is all that I mean, well, that and self- confidence and a girlfriend and

Friends and good grades and patience and all those wonderful aspects maturity will bring.

Really? It’s five, okay, Mr. Muse, get the heck off your couch, it’s about time you arrive.

I see Microsoft Word, what do I want from this world?

I want to transform this page into wings, I want to inspire, I think that I mean,

Why don’t the sentences leap from my hands, why can’t this be sorcery?

Distractions, interactions, talk and type, walk and work.

Return to the blank page that I had left so desperately before,

It isn’t that blank wall I knew anymore. 

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. 

Bully, For You

Bully, For You

by Beau Maysey

Somewhere, once, did gay mean happy?

Did we bask in innocence?

When did the dark clouds roll on in,

And immerse us in darkness intense?

Are you trying to break my moral compass,

And burn all of its remains,

You’re already big, and strong, and armed,

Tell me, what is your aim,

Ten thousand lies and butterflies,

Pull me steeply off my course,

If all the world’s a pleasant stage,

Then I’ve had no time to rehearse,

I want to reach in and pull out your soul,

And find the goodness within,

I want to relinquish you from the darkness,

I want to take you away from the sin.

We are all trapped here on this sphere called Earth,

At least we should all get along,

Where did our continuous melodies break,

And create ten thousand broken songs?

When you call me a name, just what do you mean?

What is it you hope to intend?

When you give me a push, and I don’t intervene,

I tell you I want this to end.

My system works on a system called trust,

Its old- fashioned now,

But can we still connect and let evil rust?

Let’s give an honest vow.

When exactly did you die in your heart,

And live only to live on,

Conquering and defeat is not forever,

So try to look beyond.

Was there a time that gay meant happy?

And a time that everyone cared?

And a time when the weak and the lonely were spared?

Where’s that world where no one’s scared?

I’m going to try and ignore you now,

Don’t take offense at all,

I want to help you but you’re dragging me down,

Your fight just isn’t my call.

My Keeper of Secrets

My Keeper of Secrets

by Beau Maysey 

You tell me all your best- kept secrets, all your sins and lies and stories,

Silent, still, I sit through them all, be it exciting, sad, or boring.

An explosion of words appears; is arranged on the page,

Everything we’ve ever discussed,

You go back and edit and use me again, rewriting and erasing in disgust.

We’ve shared all your painful memories, Remember the math test from heck?

You kept biting me in livid stress. Try not to be such a nervous wreck.

I’ve been with you through the happy moments,

Where I help you scribble a poem or two,

When the world is like me, too stiff, too bitter, writing is all people can do.

My days were starting to predict my end;

I was shorter than the sentences written;

My back end had been reduced to flat surface;

And my body, badly abused and bitten.

One day, we both snapped; you with another test.

Me, I was angry at your anger, stressed only at your stress.

And since we share such a solid bond, I also broke and cracked.

But you can simply piece yourself back together.

When snapped, I cannot be put back. Towards the trash can I fell with no wake.

No funeral, no crying, or heartache. Another of me, you place in your palm,

And, in new excitement, scribble along. But still those secrets I will keep,

As I deteriorate and into the ground I seep. Because I helped you write your song.

 I know you’ll never snap; you are too strong.

Roses are Red, This Poem is Life

Roses are Red, This Poem is Life

by Beau Maysey

We start with a spark, because a spark is beautiful,

We caress a bubble, boil, and trouble, because spell- crafting is magical,

We string a bow and catch a flying muse by the leg,

It soars us past the purple crests of imagination.

We return to the spark, and a pop and sizzle ring out,

Smoke flows out the ears, a fire inside the soul drives away doubt,

We string a guitar and catch a melody by its tapping beat,

It sings of dangers and hopes hidden beneath cracks on desolate peaks.

We kindle our fire with the branch of detailed imagery,

We swing on a thorny rose vine between ecstasy, dread, and misery,

The fireflies of inspiration guide us past wandering corridors,

We view a painting of a window through the third eye of a sorcerer.

We punch a clock, lock a trembling door, spread our flames out on the floor,

Add salt, add drumbeat, add black monsters to make the heat roar,

The story tap is to the left of the unknown, then two steps back,

The entrance is on a post- it cheering “Go for it!”, stuck to a thumbtack.

We find ourselves on a river in golden waters, on a desolate land,

Run grimy fingers through the diamond- studded seascape and the sand,

We wrap it all in a spider web and hurl it into the pot,

We now have a soup of all the dreams and memories we forgot.

We let it simmer and a take a sip… ooh!, still too bitter!

Let it ferment through the year and flutter out in winter,

Watch the creation bloom and see inside an endless ocean,

We weave our thoughts onto lined paper, dripping with emotion.

Sigh and stomp your feet, proclaim, “My work is growing bland!”,

Tears roll down, we toss our masterpieces in garbage cans,

We wait the week out and go back and grab the crumpled pages,

It whispers to us, “Relight the torch, release plots from cages.

We dance the Sun down, write up the margins, the tale has been reborn,

Bring it to life and ask it everything you’ve never stopped to learn,

We’ll smash impossibility and cut risk into simple worries,

Close the blinds to “No you can’t” and shy from “You must hurry”.

Lift your magnificence to the moon enthusiastically,

1001 days and 42 nights you’ll emerge triumphantly.

(Note: this poem was included as part of a theater performance called "Verse" staged at Tampa Prep)