How The Race Is Ran
The burnt out feeling had left me.
Now it was simply a writer's block.
And pistols click promise that remained.
I was a race horse with a bum leg, Set to pasture I watched far younger horses
chase their dreams.
Now I simply waited to die between drinks.
Hemingway saw it for what it was,
and choose the fast ticket out.
Hemingway was a bitter old drunk whose page couldn't match his life.
Jack found the bottle and needed others to live for his work.
Big Sur did him in.
As you can read his descent for your amusement.
Sip drinks and judge what you cannot do yourself.
It's easy to speak in comfort as others soak their scars from effort.
I knew a writer who loved to do readings.
He loved the attention.
He had a hell of a voice.
His words were empty as those that sat blowing smoke up his ass.
He read my work.
He thought it was shit.
That made me happy to hear.
Acceptance is for social climbers not true writers.
Hemingway was dead like most of the greats.
Replaced by fakes who cared more about appearance than the substance of their lines.
I didn't care if I had friends.
I drank by myself and kept my head towards the page.
I wasn't what I used to be.
But I was far better than those who believed popularity was the benchmark of what was considered good.
A lot of things were popular.
Murder, Rape and Arson were all on the rise.
Assholes filled the net hacking for fun stealing whatever they could.
Fuck popularity it gained you nothing and those lucky bastards with bestsellers and nice houses.
Well they had long since sold their souls like whores selling their asses on street corners.
I couldn't blame them.
I just couldn't join them either.
I was here for the moment.
A legacy is good for a dead man and this horse hadn't lain down yet.
I thought about the old fruitcake wearing the top hat reading his work and waiting to die.
I was glad I wasn't him.
Maybe some would say I was far worse.
Maybe those words would affect someone who truly gave a damn.
Maybe for some but never for me.
I never stayed down long.