Bad History. Good Sleep.

I am not the best historian,
too influenced by light and dark,
looking too often through dirty windows,
everything focused by a focus too narrow,
and my own collection of mistakes,
piled on on the other, bottles too full
of poison and emptiness, a need
to be filled and a need to fill,
persnickety and often out of sorts,
I trust others easier than I trust myself
and neither has served me well.

Still, I sleep hard in the night. Undisturbed.
Content
to have done my broken best,
blessed that I am loved despite my flaws,
and now and again,
because of them.

About this poem

The people who have loved me through my good and worst? A small club. And treasures. I pray thanks for them, literally, every day.

Tom/