As mentioned previously, bipolar disorder is a condition whose end game is to destroy the sufferer; it does this by isolating the individual, and the way in which it achieves this is by wrecking their relationships with all around. In this regard, I suppose it is like all serious illness (mental or physical) which puts sorely to the test shared experiences of love with those closest to us.
The following poem, Forever England, is part of my continued fight back against such aggressor. I have always been a peace lover over war monger (strangely reversed in my poem to come, Malak) seeking to unify rather than divide, but the illness foist upon my shoulders made me even more determined to bring everyone together in harmony.
Now of course such task is delusional itself as there will always be people who want to torch the world, but such evil is not confined to any one group, instead cutting right across all our shared spectrum, race, colour, creed etc. But as per current thinking, a poem about the good ol' days of England will inevitably be charged racist, misogynistic, xenophobic etc.
As you will see, however, it is not these elements I have in my sight, rather the entire system under which we live that results in my sitting at the train station opposite an advertisement encouraging me to do over my neighbour. That, I will not do. If terms like socialist, anti-capitalist etc. are beginning to be formed in the reader's mind then that is again not what I am about in this piece.
The greatest charge is probably an anti-USA stance, though once more this is not my underlying intent. It is not the country whose Declaration of Independence I love and admire so much, but the country it is becoming at this point in time - remember, this is 2002/3 and we are about to go to war. I'm not sure I've explained myself all too well here, but I wanted to state some form of defence as background to this piece and promise you that even in my attack on something I am trying always in my writing to bring matters together, not apart...
What’s happening to my country?
When I grew, and read, and learnt about this place,
’Twas only good; kings conquering, poets crafting, scientists theorising,
People proud to be a nation under no one but their own.
We were English, civilisers, decent folk who went our way with honour.
Now, my homeland crumbles, and we,
We slip into the jaws a beast who’ll have us for his fare.
What is this nameless dread? No friends I know, nor family,
Nor people that I meet, compete to oust each other,
But the system, our form head, pedagogue, instructor,
Orders us upend our kin in competition sell.
Is it right that I should sit myself on station platform,
And endure a hoarding tell me outperform my neighbour?
Is it right that when we dream, we must beat godliness to death?
This land dies, boy, this land dies,
By the sword across the pond that poisons its own chalice fore the pass.
But England, all I see in you is how that venom stings.