I lived as Hemingway, writing and drinking
with cats around me.
I’ve sobered and said my, “Farewell to Arms.”
What? Were you expecting, “The old man and the sea?”
I was paranoid like Poe, always looking over my shoulder—
and over the facade I wore.
Finding tragedy in beauty, I wrote, and I wrote—
embracing this, “Nevermore.”
I’ve traveled like Twain,
only to stop a few years later.
Sounding artsy to impress the masses,
which came from a guy who tripped over the equator.
I went silent like Frost, my hand interpreting
the voice in my head.
Deciphering things around us, simple and complex,
became the path I chose instead.
I’ve lived the dreams of others, perhaps I found my calling
and didn’t know it.
For now and until we meet again
This is a throwback poem from my first blog. Hope you enjoy it!