National Poetry Month (Poem #2)

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.

The Nearness of Truth by Kuamel Stewart

The mostly highly anticipated match up of the year.
Thoughts stepped into the ring with its narcissistic flare dripping with hubris.
Not fazed.
Prepared to go to war tonight.
Left, right, left, right.
The superego sauntered around the ring preparing to preface the bout with the reading of the sponsors.
Introspection and vagrancy seemed to have provided the subsidies.
But none of that mattered to me.
Focused, I was.
If he throws a verat at you, hit ‘em with denial.
That unyielding truth of his can’t handle this repression haymaker. No sir. We’re going to win tonight.
He had “mores” embroidered across his waist line.
Not fazed.
His training team traipsed around the ring with their jackets that read, “The truth hurts”.
Not fazed.
I could hear the announcers, “Do you think he has any chance Bob?” “Well I don’t know Chip. You know this guy’s moniker is the conscious assassin. And he said he’s been waiting for this one all night. But we’ll see how it goes”.
Not fazed.
The perspiration ran from my pores.
I wiped the sweat from my face and approached the center of the ring.
I shook his hand.
Thoughts looked confident.
He gave me a look resembling that of a matron scolding her son with her eyes while knowing he was trying to cajole her with a sly smile in his attempt to evade her discovery of his mischievous shenanigans.
Not fazed.
Rings emitted from the bell.
I came out displaying my dexterity with an unwavering fury.
But Thoughts was so calm.
Not fazed.
Throw a left, and a right.
Hit ‘em in the body.
I feverishly threw punch after punch utilizing every tactic that I had learned over the years to elude him
Gluttonous left.
Alcoholic right.
I then delivered a blow that was so hard, I could’ve sworn it would’ve left an indelible imprint in his chest that read, “conformity “
But he seemed impervious to it all.
And while I attempted to reinforce my courage, strength, valor, and pride by saying to myself, “not fazed” yet again,
He came.
His decision to become offensive had been made.
What followed the lie I told myself was a flurry of attacks that became increasingly clear I wasn’t prepared for,
Thoughts pummeled me,
Beat me into a submission so gruesome that I couldn’t even cry out that he was killing me.
My limbs fell asunder.
I succumbed to the duress of his truth and landed on the mat with a thud that seem like a cacophony given that I was hit so hard that I simultaneously acquired a heightened sense of sound.
As I lay helpless on the ground, the brain stemmed referee counted off at the tune of my demise,
Sidled next to me outside of the ring was a photographer, and I could hear him profess, “wow, now that’s a lurid image”
I fell into a coma before the ref got to 4.
In my reverie I dreamed of tomorrow’s newspaper, and an article read, “It seemed like he was over-matched in this one, and boy did he go down quickly. After the fight, I asked Thoughts if he’d like to say anything to the screaming neurons in the crowd who so ardently supported him and he retorted, “Yeah, not fazed”.