Broken Window

I stare out my window,
My single, broken window.
Around me people stand,
Talking, smiling, laughing.
They stand on the other side of their windows,
Their clear, perfect windows.
Not a crack, nor a scratch,
How easy it is to understand them.
Every feeling, every emotion, understandable at a glance.
My window is different,
Cracked, scratched, changed.
They shun me from their perfect world,
Afraid of who I could be.
The image they see, is not me.
The image they see, is what they want me to be.
A pawn in their game, whom they hope to change.
With their clarity blocked, the image is contorted.
Their images are all the same.
Striving to be seen and hoping to be heard.
Among the millions of fixed little windows,
I stand, not alone, staring out my window.
My simply complicated, broken window.

Hi Mybrokenreality! Welcome to the Young Writers' Society, if I haven't welcomed you already.

I like very much the concept of this poem. However, it could get a bit repetitious. Try to think of different words than "cracked" and "scratched"; perhaps "flawed," "dented," or "faded."

mybrokenreality wrote:The image they see, is what they want me to be.
A pawn in their game, whom they hope to change.
With their clarity blocked, the image is contorted.

These lines are undoubtedly the best of the piece. They are beautiful. Don't change a thing about them. (I love the chess reference.)

Anyway, nice job! Happy writing!

mybrokenreality wrote:My simply complicated, broken window.

"Simply complicated" is an oxymoron. Nothing can be simply complicated or complicatedly simple. They contradict each other. Was this what you wanted? Oxymorons are fine to have in poetry, but only if the poet knows they're there.

Hi! Thanks!

Hmm...I understand what you mean and you're right. If I changed it, it would be a little better, wouldn't it?

Ha, that was my favorite part too!

Yes, I did mean to put that oxymoron in.

Thanks for the review!

~mybrokenreality

I really enjoyed reading this poem. I feel the same way sometimes when it seems like I'll never be good enough, or I see things differently than others. But at the end of the day, those things don't really bother me because I have my family and I have God, which is really all that matters and everything I need.

Okay haha so...back to the poem. This is, so far, my favorite poem of yours because it seemed to form a subtle pattern. I liked the way the beginning and ending were linked, that really pulled the whole thing together. And as for the "simply complicated" oxymoron, I think it could work out, and when paired with another oxymoron, could color the poem with a sense of irony. There are plenty things in my life that are "simply complicated". Because what's considered simple to the world, may be a complication to you, or vice versa. That's why I think it fits the poem so perfectly, because it's about others having a simple, superficial view of you, while you're really a very complicated person.

Have you ever heard the phrase "beautiful mess"? Also a very practical, human turn of expression. Is not an adorable little boy still cute when his face is covered in ice cream?

Hello! I really like this poem! The only thing wrong I could find is a few comas that don't need to be there...

The image they see, is not me.
The image they see, is what they want me to be.

Neither of those comas are need and removing them makes the lines read better. When you are adding coma's, go back and read over your work and when you see a coma, you pause. So while re-reading delete any comas that seem to cause an unnatural pause...

~Rain~

Oh, god, in response to this poem (I had to write it, I'm so very sorry):

My window may look so very clear,
it may look perfect and pretty,
like an unflawed diamond crystal.
But when you stand behind, you see,
what counts as the true me.
You think I am easy to understand,
that I smile, talk and laugh.
And think that I stereotype you,
as the one who is not as I.
Though the truth is, you're only seeing the surface,
not looking out from my in.
My mask may look so very happy and un-unique.
Like a single flower in the spring,
you do not see the rotting roots,
or the poison in my stem.
The cracks and splinters in my window,
Are only visible to me.
So when you look my way,
You only see the pretty glass.

AGAIN! I'm sorry. This is the reponse I have for you... I think I liked your poem so much I had to write one as a reply. And from a different view.