To be a great writer

He came to me in a dream,

The greatest writer who ever lived.

His works,

Provocative, intrepid and vast,

Are glimpses from the very pith of life

Immortalised in ink.

Role model. Inspiration. Demi-god.

To me,

He epitomised all I ever aspired.

What would I not give

If only a tenth of his achievements

Were to be my entire eulogy?

Now, he stood before me;

A genie

Beholding Alladin of the rusty lamp.

Great sir, I cried. Ye lord of the written word,

I beg your indulgence.

Speak, he commanded. Spill forth your distress.

Teach me, kind sir, to be a great writer.

Sprinkle upon me droplets from your sea of wisdom

So that I can be like you.

He looked at me with mirth in his eyes

And laughed in a voice that was terrible.

Teach you? He laughed and then laughed some more.

What are you, a fool? An incurable idiot?

Why is God God? He suddenly asked.

Because he creates, I quickly replied.

And why is your mother so? He continued.

Because she brought me forth, said I.

Why is Erykah Badu a siren?

Because she sings, I rattled on.

And why is Dubya an imbecile?

Because he is stupid beyond compare!

You are what you do, he summed it up.

You say you desire to write great works.

Then why the hell are you still here?

Get yourself a goddamned pen and write!

I awoke

I got myself a pen and paper

And I wrote.