A Poem I Wrote, Titled Hope (The title is a misnomer)

[thatguyinthecorner]

Well, what can I say other than that this is a poem I wrote, titled Hope?

Hope is powerful.
It gives people the strength to go on, the strength to look at how bad their life is, and at the miserable world around them, and ignore it, the strength to push forward, no matter how black their circumstances are.
But for those who don’t have hope, whose spirits have crushed, shredded, and cast aside by the harsh reality around them, it is a word, nothing more, nothing less.
There’s a label that society gave to the people who’ve sunk so low into the inescapable, black pit of sorrow and despair that they’d kill themselves to escape from it.
An old friend of mine came close to doing exactly that.
On the day before the Ides of March, nearly midnight, he nearly killed himself. And… as much as it hurts, as much as I burn inside when I say it, I was not the one who stopped him.
Why would they do this?
Because society convinces them that they’re whining about everyday problems everyone else has as well, and says that they should shut up and drop dead rather than waste everybody’s time.
Because of this, it is impossible for many of them to find the hope they need to press on and to keep going through their lives.
Because of this stigma, they consider themselves every bit as worthless, as weak, and as pathetic as people say they are, and because of this they believe themselves a parasite to their friends and family while a nuisance to everyone else, and, above all, because they see no meaning in their life.
Because of mental disorders, such as depression, that society underestimates and tells them they can ignore, regardless of the actual severity of the problem.
Back to my friend; why did he do this? Because he had to fight his depression on his own.
Because even after struggling against inner demons no one else would even so much as believe he had for more than a decade and a half, the world couldn’t even be bothered to spend its time listening for a few hours.
Because in his fight against the abominable colossus that is depression, and whatever the hell else was wrong with his mind, he was alone.
Because even with the ebon, clawed hands of depression slowly tearing his psyche to ribbons and his very soul eroded by its own flaws and imperfections, slowly but surely causing his very soul to bleed out of him while he was dragged into a pitch black, bottomless abyss of despair from which there is no escape as I failed miserably and repeatedly to help, he was by himself.
Because even as he was slowly dragged towards the grotesque, serrated fangs of some unfathomable, incomprehensible monstrosity the likes of which I could not possibly imagine in order to fill one of my bleakest, most horrible nightmares, even as it gnashed its teeth expectantly, the world just stood and laughed, or turned around, or just ignored it.
As he lay, sinking lower and lower, trapped in a cesspool of misery, the light of the sun long ago devoured by his own sorrow, his every limb shaking as he struggled and writhed to try and reach the surface of the murky, lightless, pitch black ocean of chaos and agony of his his own mind, nobody bothered to try and help him.
Because the world didn't care enough to help one of the only truly kind people on it, because nobody cared enough to try and help him, he saw no other option.

[Lamby]

This isn't poetry, it is prose. Or is that the irony? It is quite touching and perceptive, but it seems you have issues with clarity. While some words sound nice next to each other, it doesn't necessarily mean that your image is clear. Writing is about being the most vivid you can, not necessarily the most descriptive you can.

Because even with the ebony, clawed hands of depression slowly tearing his psyche to ribbons and his very soul eroded by its own flaws and imperfections, slowly but surely causing his very soul to bleed out of him while he was dragged into a pitch black, bottomless abyss of despair from which there is no escape as I failed miserably and repeatedly to help, he was by himself.

This certainly communicates a melancholy mood, but isn't succinct and drags on. You certainly demonstrate your craft, but you need to focus on being direct. Something like "The more I tried to wrench him out of the claws depression, the more he seemed to drift away" says a lot more than a paragraph of vague description. Make sure your words are direct. Don't waste words.

[thatguyinthecorner]

As for the prose, this started as a poem, then I changed it to a memoir, then I changed it back, so it's really neither at this point and a sort of jumbled mix of the two.

And noted.