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mal frost Dec 2020
i want to live so long -  no, so much -
that i stop getting sick of life
that i find myself in love,
with everyone and everything,
always,
and that i know who i am and who i want to be
until the end.
"You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?"
from p.67, The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
colette alexia Apr 2020
He was all charisma, curls, and commitment issues
And ****** I fell for it
4/22/2020
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
*** in the morning
Death in the afternoon
And it was dark

Milling about stacks
Of paperbacks and out of focus snapshots
Some of her in the shower

But pay heed
She's an iceberg
Warm her up on a bed of nails

Until she's a plaintive waterfall
And then tie her to the scaffolding
Of a clean well lighted place

What remains out of sight
Through omission
Through silence

Through childlike syntax
Shall float to the surface
In its own due time
To the master of the Iceberg Theory, Ernest Hemingway
JJ Inda Nov 2018
This ache seems to be
like Papa's White Elephants;
valuable in a sense
I've yet to understand.

Busy body, tranquil mind,
a joke I say!
The fishing line
is ever tangled.

Another
wasted morning,
another
throwaway.
Papa; Hemingway
Worte this afrter reading a short: Hills Like White Elephants
You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.
-WRR
typhany Dec 2017
but i am putting it down
until it hurts
and grips me vicariously
'til i'm twisted around-
i'm turned into a mug's handle

it's the same plastic feeling
i had before
i miss the solid glass,
and the strips of wood
i teased with my angel fingers

the mirror couldn't see me
today
i didn't let it.
how could i?
my eyes are too small, here

shaggy planet earth
was invaded in 1981
beginning with my first soul:
i was so young
i didn't know better

tossed out, i'm left to drink up
the abundance of this world.
swallowing more light and dark
than my small eyes can;
i turned to ethanol.

hemingway entered my life
in the fall of '09
i couldn't have been more in love.
maybe that's why
i'm pen in one hand, drink in the other.
Charles Ernest Oct 2017
The lake was a sprawling uneven mass
Like a slithering serpent of uncertainty
Underneath our boat
We counted the moments to the future
The yards from the past were still very few
We feared of getting lost in the quest
To relinquish our past
And to marry a sweet future
Our destinies intertwined
On the road to blood and war
The war was unending
The blood was raining
Then we found ourselves
In the embrace of each other
We fell in love
We fell from grace
The ugly war
The incredible noise
The unimaginable distances
We had to escape
The boat was just a metaphor
Of the times we only knew
How important love could be
In saving our souls from drowning
In the coldness of life.
A Poetic Tribute to Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms
Sandoval Aug 2017
With Neruda, I fell in love with you.

It was so beautiful, I felt I had to close my eyes wide shut,

just to remember this was not a dream.

Then Hemingway came along, by then I was feeling a little lost in your eyes. Some days were good, some days were bad. Yet, I still held on.

But when I suddenly found myself with Bukowski on my nightstand.

Well, I knew then, baby, we were ******. He brought me back to reality, and I understood at that moment, that we were finally done.


*Sandoval
Now I don't read any of them, they remind me too much of you..

To Drew.
I'm a man of the night
I've been branded
My poetry serves no purpose to the world.
I've not been branded a hero,
I've'd seen how those all end:
                    Unquestionable statues of bronze or gold
                  or rather forgotten,
              disposed after 2 weeks of fame after-death.
I want neither.
I'm no hero, no. I'm no gigantic bearded poet
                                         Hemingway shot himself
                                                         ­       I couldn't muster courage
                                         or decandence.

I. made. to.
               Stand.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Serving my servers.
Out of love.
I carry. As they carry.
              as I get. Carried.
As one shelters me this moment;
As other. Eloquent. Frightening. Dashing and Proud.
                 as she said;
                 titles are in fact...
july 22, 2017
3:27 a.m., Zibreiros
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