Part 1: A World

This poem is only about one third finished, but I wanted to share what I produced yesterday. I need to suffer horrible depression to put me in the frame of mind to produce good poetry. I'm leaving it as a statement until it is completed. Part 1: A World A world is not in human hands But in the grip of greed Whose champions make cruel demands Upon the ones in need Thus honest work is undermined Turned crooked and uncouth To capture and in darkness blind All seekers of the truth And nowhere is the truth mocked more Than where the people claim That truth and justice are their core And happiness their aim For bitter knowledge fails to sell Unless made sweet with lies And long experience would tell Of virtue's slow demise To make the truth, they form a club Against persistent doubt Endeavouring to poets snub And keep the riffraff out And if the masses wish to back Another's voice instead The club falls on him like a pack And seize his words to shred In such a world did Raymond write As but the bravest dared Directly in the teeth of spite Unflinchingly, he stared Producing from his noble views The nectar of his sight Determined by the words he used To put corruption right Though countless praises for his bids From sharing had been won He stood alone within the midst Of followers not one The evil club would then descend Upon his humble home And scatter wide among its friend The beauty of his tome When Raymond saw how were adored Pretenders in his place While he stayed callously ignored His grief he could not face Depleted of his finest gems Bereft of slightest hope As time provided no amends He gave his neck the rope Part 2: A Netherworld (to be continued) Not bad, eh? Same mournful meter as The Mortal Interval (Poems Index). A lot of artists like Raymond conclude that life is not worth living in a world without truth. In spite of my experience, however, I remain optimistic about this world. I know that some powerful people have already been punished on my behalf and this gives me hope about my future. If I were to 'give my neck the rope', it would only to be to draw the real experience to complete this poem, rather than having to rely solely on my imagination. I'd also be interested in meeting many of the great artists and poets who ended their lives in suicide. They tend to be outstanding.
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