27 Daze (poem, anecdote)

A fight with a Scott
is like wrestling a wolverine.
Through wilting, through rot,
we’ll endure the punishing.

Whose the winner?
Whose the victor?
Aren’t they allied?
Forced together?

The eyes of Kurtain
enclosing and true
saw faith in phantoms
where honesty flew.

Which witch is which?
They casting blessings?
An in-patient itch…
How many dressings?

I got knocked the FUCK down.
Then drugged the FUCK out.
And felt like a clown.
In my honesty pout.

Cackler and laughter.
Is this relaxation?
Get mad then get madder.
And watch the damnation.

Going outside is a privilege,
then again so is a shelter.
And if limbo’s a bridge,
our jungle’s just swelter!

Will you face your biggest fear?
And be engulfed by darkness?
Willingly listen to what you hear?
Tread the light you harness?

You may be perfectly happy,
your life quaint, content, alright.
But your honesty appears sappy.
When some ‘healers’ hear your plight.

This was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Yet it was only 27 days.
And even though my battle’s won.
I now know the other ways.

Intuition was once my denial.
Honesty a throughput of conceptions.
Gestationed hatchlings little while.
I believe in my inceptions.

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