Poem: Broken Book

The book arrived and beyond excited to smell the cover,
To open the book to the middle and gloss over the page.
Those masterful written words by a masterful writer.
His name was Ernest Hemingway. He was a jerk too.
Mental illness ran in his family including suicidal thoughts.
I can put his negative traits out of mind, out of sight.
His penchant to never stop until his mind could go no further,
The stories he created is something to aspire to.
Even though my body does not look like his and I am of the opposite sex,
I too have great visions of success although on a smaller scale.

The book must be returned and brings me annoyance and sadness.
How much my fingers wanted to turn the pages.
My eyes waited patiently to swallow the words whole. 
I wanted to get to know Ernest Hemingway in another way,
Not as a maladjusted grown child who treated women poorly.
Although it seems he truly could not help it, for he loved women too much.
This does not excuse his actions, but clearly he did not abide by the standards 
Of living most able bodied men achieve.
Sometimes I see him as a hurt child, not able to get past the nightmares.
Other times I see him as a stubborn man not able to get past his pride.

If he was so affected in his youth, why did he not try harder to overcome it.
This question will probably never be answered.
He is now dead as many writers before him. Most go peacefully into silence.
Ernest Hemingway took his own life and is not surprising.
Most roads lead back to your childhood. It is a reality adults can't escape.
I identity with him in some ways, in others not so much.
My body does not crave liquor or being in the thick of battle and war.
If you glimpse into my brain, crack it open a little, the right scientist will see
parts of our brains are not so different.
Writers love the struggle, even if they tell you otherwise.

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