when the rich and famous
let their hands grow traitorous
they begin to shine like beacons
spewing blackness into the light of day
Hemingway sat in bars
picked fights to feel something real and pure again
through the fog of his drunken mania
Hunter wandered around in the snow
in his bathrobe
firing his shotgun off
into the snowy hills over Denver
maybe they expected everyone
to learn the lessons of their novels
and act accordingly?
all those writer's dreamt of humans ?
Suppose they felt like nothing much matters in the end?
Though the ones left crying at their funerals
stranded here to do the hard work of living
would surely disagree
I wonder if they would like being literary examples
of expecting too much from this silly life?
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