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—
over the façade 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.
I’ve sounded artsy to impress the masses,
a clutz who tripped over the equator.
I became silent like Frost, my hand interpreting
the voice in my head.
Writing about things all around us,
became the path I chose instead.
I am the son of hard work and determination;
a brother to run to in any situation.
I am a grandson to legends,
their eyes watching from heaven.
I’ve lived the dreams of others, perhaps I found my calling,
and didn’t know it.
For now and until we meet again.