Up A Huge Hill Backwards

O those who wish to compose poetry Are constantly up against it; it seems. Whether it's being labelled as lazy, Or idealistic, drug fuelled and hazy. Whether it's being misunderstood by The masses or patronised by modern elites, Who are brainwashed by capitalist lies. They regard it as essentially a futile Endeavour. There are so many nay sayers. There are multitudes of philistines. There are Those who appear, to dread the spread, of a smidgeon Of beauty into our crude world. They fear visions And dreams that point out its inadequacies. But mostly, they fear, their inner selves I feel.