You Never Bleed on the Table

A cup of tea. Some time. Memories.
It really does not matter what else is in the room,
those three give me enough to work with.
Something to write about, to pry out the feelings
that you need to feel, even when they overwhelm.

“You were aways so self-contained.”
My mother’s words.
“You are so resilient.”
A phrase I have heard since I was a teenager.
All praise, or meant to be.
All meant to be compliments.

“You never bleed on the table.”
That is the truth of it. There is no less pain
or struggle for the fact that it is not seen.
It is simply a way you learn to be
when there is no one to listen.
Protective coloring, a kind of invisibility
that makes you useful. Not a burden.
Good enough. I craft things
for people to read and see,
But more importantly,
that I may read and see,
and like the old man I am,
continually seek the truths.
Not all of them.
Just the ones that matter.
You never bleed on the table,
except when you do.

About this poem

I write here. I write in journals. I paint. I stare into space a lot. And somehow, continue to surprise myself. I am not sure if that is a good thing or not, but there you go.

I do not recall which of the many historic homes the photograph is from. Alas.

Tom