Certain Lonliness
I wrote this poem after watching a documentary on Ernest Hemmingway. I have long admired his writings, beginning in grade school when I read The Old Man and the Sea. As I learned more about him and his life, his writing sometimes masked the inner pain he must have felt. He was always chasing after that feeling you have when you first fall in love. His legacy is marred by divorce, infidelity, and alcoholism. To me, I prefer to think of him as a genius the world little understood. He will always be that romantic ex-pat spinning words into masterpieces.
He did not see the world,
blinded by the tragedy that had shaped his life.
The only beauty he had known was the love of his mother.
She was gone, leaving before the boy became a man.
His childhood was a string of prose.
His friends were not friends, rather bystanders of his memory.
His heart was void of love.
He scarcely knew how to try.
If ever a man was ensconced in sadness, it was he.
A prisoner of sorts, unable to feel.
At night tears would drench his empty hands.
His heartbeat only to give him breath.
An isolated soul, unknown to the city that surrounded him.
Death came quietly, he could hear his mother's whisper.
In final surrender he left.
No one would know.
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