Open Poem by Bethany Maxwell

Here there is nothing but open,
Nothing but pure space,
Nothing but a void of unknown.

In this place the only thing that exists in the mind,
Is what is made true through the spirit,
And actions made by the body.

In a world so empty and cold,
There is nothing to live for,
Yet at the same time nothing to die for.

Here, you just are,
You do not live or die or believe,
You just are.

It’s unimaginable to the worlds that surround,
A figment of a child’s imagination, maybe.
Abandoned over the years.

Maybe this place is the creation of a tired author,
Who has nothing to write, only characters without purpose,
No ideas left to create a solid world.

A lonely widow, perhaps,
With no one to please or be with,
Only an empty house filled with empty memories.

Or even a retired soldier,
Not wanting to live through the pain and dreams,
Creating a world so empty, so predictable, nothing could go wrong.

A mother who has lost their child,
Who goes from day to day following suit,
Wishing it was them instead of their baby who left the world.

The blackness of this world is unlike any other,
A simple world that is pure impurities,
Simple complexity.

Like the worlds we make for ourselves to escape to,
When our own reality becomes more than we can handle, less than we expect,
A world we can slip off to silently screaming.

A bright place of darkness,
A never ending end to what we live everyday,
A single lie that we live with as if it were true.

A world that is everything and nothing,
Completely incomplete,
Written and unwritten.

Open.


By: Bethany Maxwell
(c) September 29,2010