Hemingway’s Shotgun

The muse is not listening.
The fuse is glistening.
Fire, flame, glimmer, shame.
Am I forgetting

How many times I have been applauded?
How many times I have been lauded?
Will it ever be enough?
I think of Hemingway and his Pulitzer.

Drunk on whiskey ready to pull the trigger.
Shotgun in mouth.
Brains blown out.
It was never enough.

And what about me?
What do I need you to say?
That my words touched you today.
That you did think and pray.

For peace. For love.
For a better world to make.
Would that be enough for me?
Is creativity an angel or demon I seek?

Can one survive this thirst to create?
Always needing to captivate.
Always needing to communicate.
Hemingway’s shotgun to take.

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