"The View From My Window is of the Roof"
10/19/05
The view from my window is of the roof
each tile uniform and gray.
Sure, there is a window down about six feet,
but the glass is frosted and the light blurry.
It’s cold now, and leaves dance in the street.
Power lines crisscross above my head, buzzing, and
full of energy I cannot seem to muster.
This weight inside seems impossible to face.
Distracted, I look to sky;
it is leaden and the clouds hang low: I feel trapped.
Asphalt at my feet and dead grass –
I used to think autumn was my favorite season.
Your picture is in my sock drawer, overturned.
The wood grain must be fascinating.
The last time I heard your voice was a few days ago,
when I hung up on you and held my head in my hands.
“Someday I might get over you,” he sings in my headphones,
and how I hope it’s the truth.
This strange limbo seems endless;
I am unsure and I think I've lost myself.
I surround myself with crayons: red, indigo, daffodil yellow.
But I cannot stop looking out the window at the gray grid of the roof.
Would a fall from the third floor be enough to kill a person?
I know it’s silly, but that gray roof isn’t the last thing I want to see.
Please throw open the window so I can feel the breeze.
I shiver when the cold hits my skin, but it makes me feel
alive
and I haven’t felt that way in a while.
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
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Original Text:
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125,018 Literary Works • 672,857 Reviews
I agree that the emotions in this piece seemed flat and bland. We're all familar with that numbness when something bad has happened, but it doesn't quite translate into evoking anything from the reader in this piece.
You seem so disconnected from these emotions. Its like the speaker wants to keep the experience at arms length. A good device, and a feeling I can certainly understand, but it strikes the reader as though you just don't care. If you don't care, I have no reason to.
Nitpickyness:
The 'sure' here is out of place. Axe it or rephrase.
And? I know the feeling, but it's a terribly cliche concept.
I love this whole stanza. It's chok-full of sad goodness. Especially the last line. It gives the listless, distracted sadness a great underline.
So? Then what? I'm left wanting.
And you don't seem to give a damn either way.
It's not silly. It makes perfect sense. What doesn't make sense is the lack of motivation for suicide in the beginning of the poem. This comes out of no where, and I still can't care about the speaker.
Ick. That last bit is so...flat. I don't care that this person hasn't felt alive in a while. And I get the impression that they don't either.
This piece isn't you. It's flat, unfeeling, clenched. Not bad, but definitly not my favorite.