Inventing History

Whatever you do, do not ask questions,
It would be fatal, like opening a journal
and discovering the frightening passion
your lover has for you,

or that like a madman, he talks to God
in the silent hours of the night.
There could be answers to his silence,
a child like fear that you never wanted

in your knight in shining armor. You may discover
that he is far braver than you imagined,
and that even the simple act of saying
“I love you.” leaves him more vulnerable and afraid

that the fiercest battle.
And what then, if you knew the truth, knew
his passion was not something imagined,
but fearfully real?

What if the history you created
was vapid and pale compared to what hides
behind his silence?
What then?

About this poem. 

I am a long time journal writer. And I have often said that anyone who actually read my journals would think me mad. Depending on the pages you read, that madness could take many forms, so I’d like be called schizophrenic and mad both.

But then, ask me something, and take the time to listen, you might find the same thing. I tend towards a stream of consciousness when left along to talk, or write. Which is probably why poetry is a good medium for me. I am forced to focus, hone things down, and not tell all, to invent just a slice of history, and be done with it.

Tom

PS – the picture is not one of my journals, which tend to be small and black and dull from the outside. It is of one of the record books from our church, this particular one going back to the late 1880’s.