Content warning: this article mentions suicide

one o’clock belongs to me and so does 

the white canvas and its empty eyes

but careful, do not mistake owner for in-control magnanimity,

(it is not as if i deign to write and poetry begs to exist) 

crouched in the fervent haze of word-searching, futile, 

i watch this misty form rise, 

wafting out of a leak ing teapot, 

conscious or product of brain states, what does it matter, 

i just want to write a poem and go to sleep, 

one that dances from

  all things flippant to utter ruin, 

oh, lord of language, 

teach me the wily ways of craftsmanship,

invite the greats for supper at this table of half-asleep talent, 

look the other way, won’t you, 

this silent (useless) subject is suffering from her own idle, 

addled, and suicidal hands

                   she cuts corners to create, claiming 

                   there is no more genius to be spared, 

the lazy pool of phrases banal in spillage

(though aimed at deep-seated feeling),

i would ask if there is meaning in producing this poem, 

which unfurls in glory and hopes to outdo its predecessors, 

but i already know what you’re going to say. 

                   rest your eyes and set down the mighty pen. 

                   we must all await sleep’s reinvention. 

so i sleep.

after all, one o’clock is no longer mine when it strikes two. 

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Image: Nicole Lau