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...My last day at work I got him alone,
and I let loose in a brutal tirade,
said that he’d betrayed ‘serious writing,’
which has trouble enough in our day and age.

I told him his gifts were not just his own,
that one who can see deeper truths in their head
has a duty to enlighten the world,
otherwise those great gifts are just wasted.

I called in a sell-out, I called him a hack,
said he was selfish, and it was a crime
to write cliché-ridden Christmas movies
instead of works that could redefine mankind.

I expected a rage of anger from him,
I meant to laugh then slowly walk away,
instead he stayed calm and started to speak,
what he told me then still haunts me to this day…

He learned back in and office chair and said,
“Word is you’ve got a book out next week,
and at twenty-five that is quite the coup,
I went through the same thing as twenty-three.

“Can’t say I’m surprised that you feel this way,
we’re built of passion when we are that young.
You’ve got the urge to ‘redefine’ the world,
and now you’ll set out to see that it’s done.

“But before you go, you might want to hear
from a man who has been right where you are.
it’s not by mistake that I’m working here,
though that must seem to you very bizarre.

“I was the ‘next Charles Dickens,’ they declared,
and got more praise for each novel I wrote.
I’d deconstruct why people are what they are,
and like some medieval king, I would gloat.

“The underground man had nothing on me,
the inquisitor could go eat my dust.
I’d transgress the customs that rule our lives,
disassemble the illusions we trust.

“And for seven novels, I did just that,
the Literati lavished me with praise,
dysfunctional characters, no happy ends,
story sacrificed to post-modern haze.

“I was edgy, I attacked tradition,
I thought that I was blazing a new trail,
that this would give me immortality,
ensure my works would be read, without fail.

“I was invited to the right parties,
even once shook hands with a president,
got invited to speak on campuses,
I never thought it could come to an end.

“But even then, a time-bomb awaited,
and it went off when I was twenty-nine,
when I asked my agent to send me some fan-mail,
before then I had never made the time.

“There was lots of praise, and some naughty pics,
but as I went deeper I soon saw clear,
that many people who had read my works
wrote of depression, confusion, and fear...

CONTINUES IN PART III.
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