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by Kevin Mercurio

Everyday I think a theory, after working, feeling dreary,
Camping on my comfy cushions does mitigate a common chore.
Sometimes looking, often staring, much less my mind is caring;
Window light outside crept daring, right onto my dusty floor—
Particles free-float distracting, right onto my dusty floor.
Why can life be such a bore?

So easily I can recall, some youthful season in the Fall,
Coloured leaves atop trees so large, falling in piles more and more.
I remember potent freshness—a little bit pretentious;
Worry free and so rambunctious, life looked like a candy store—
Flavours to imagination, in this vibrant open store.
This then changed to something sore.

Eyelids weigh down as dimness come, frivolous be against the numb.
Get me! Oh—stand my aching legs! Stride like my younger years before.
Still, my mind continues racing, my body does no pacing;
Comfy cushions do no raging, my feet stay above the floor—
Phone is silent and not paging, my feet do not touch the floor.
Where does the time head toward?

I start the ever dreadful count, grab the couch arm as if to mount,
Please, I beg, Oh please, fill steady—of those reserves so clearly poor!
There’s a project I am wishing, to be about finishing
Yet I’m sitting like I’m fishing, staring at my dusty floor—
Three, two, one and end the countdown so to step onto the floor.
But that feels like such a chore.

I move my gaze to the wall, and raise my eyebrows taught and tall,
Self-loathing my bleak reproaching, broaching bad about boredom’s core;
What could be this endless trickle, contrary to those fickle;
Oh boy, if I had a nickel, I could buy that candy store—
Even though I want so badly to enter the candy store.
My inner fight rages war.

Creativity leaves again, during that memory back when;
Go over there and grab the pen, you fully rotten apple core.
Start deriding, providing names—which, should instigate some gains;
Angry impulses make me grasp the white paper I just tore—
Pieces flutter as I stutter asking what it is I tore.
How can I be something more?

Unconvinced of my deception, this theatrical rendition;
Escalating, motivating, but fatigue comes right through the door.
The importance is no problem, now in my heads the Goblin;
Stomping through and through head bobbin’, dirtying my dusty floor—
Climbing my elevated leg, just above my dusty floor.
“It’s you, from when I was four.”

This ugly creature’s foul smell, even horror stories pray tell,
It’s ravaged skin green, peeled and charred, as if picked from mythical lore.
“Have not seen you in a while. Have you not changed your style;—
Nasty, wretched, oh so vile, of which I do not adore—
Cast your reasons for your presence of which I do not adore.”
This just made the goblin roar.

Its seemingly simplistic tone, made me forget my ringing phone;
It roared and roared in all replies, just like a money hungry whore;
At its height, it could oddly stand—against the smack of my hand,
The Goblin’s strength is in demand, within terror telltale lore—
Features which I myself do need----remember from youthful lore;
Let me think about it more.

The Goblin hops upon my arm, it’s tripping, falling, lacking charm;
I smile at its failed attempt, but no one will be keeping score.
It’s determined to reach my ear, jumping, flipping, lacking fear;
“Do please tell me why you are here, I left you when I passed four—
Have I gone so mad that I have turned time back when I was four?”
The Goblin keeps climbing more.

Such absence of trepidation, an exemplar inspiration,
The imaginary Goblin who first dirtied my dusty floor;
That appeared during my distress, quickly reaching my right breast.
Suppressed? Rather really impressed, as I was about to snore—
Energy replaced lethargy, before my throat outs a snore.
At least there should be no gore.

I picked up the ghoulish Goblin, in a fit it started sloggin’;
Pinched its leg and held upside-down, it let out a ferocious roar.
I then stopped and started thinking, its crunched face madly wrinkling;
Something must have started linking, brain is fired at its core---
Some ideas flew in swifting, blood pumping from my heart’s core.
Productivity once more!

It got loose from out of my grasp, I then failed desperately to clasp,
Its slimy body reminds me of chewy gummies at the store;
What’s more, the Goblin ran a fowl, so nimble and on the prowl—
Roaring, lacking any vowels, stomping hard boots made of ore;
How is it able to carry all material of ore?
“That’s enough and never more!”

Finally made it to my ear, and I am quite surprised to hear—
Proper English was outspoken, rather than its specific roar;
“Pathetic”, it say, “writing gift? Besmirched because you’re stuck stiff,
Inert by your so lack of rift—then your cushions and your floor—
Bah ha! Your ass must be so numb, that it can bounce off the floor!”
“That’s enough and never more!”

“Writer?" It asks, “Like Edgar Poe—adapt like Amontillado?
Anabel? Helen? The Raven? Best believe that you are a bore!”
“His daunting style makes no sense! Full of syllables and dense!”
“Choppy wordplay does make it tense, and makes self-references galore;
To regurgitate his timing as to hope and write galore!”
“That’s enough and never more;—

Dare you come into existence, while provided me subsistence,
I don’t need your cruel intentions, our conversation needs no more!
Forget minimal suggestions, forget your rude transgressions,
Forget proper salutations, step off and out the front door!
Take your ugliness and shove it, push it out and through the door!”
It say, “Be it, you implore.”

So the Goblin never living, never sitting, never fitting,
In my head more than a minute before I step onto my floor,
Grab the pen of which is tilting, by flowers which are wilting.
The Goblin’s presence was guilting—why I can’t recall the store—
Young ideas vibrant wonder, colours from that candy store;—
Adaptation, ever more!


“You are what you love, not what loves you.”
- Donald Kaufman (Charlie Kaufman) from Adaptation

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