I wrote this poem last night actually, in honor of my empty suite-mate's room. My roommate had gone to bed, so I went out into the common room to do a little reading and writing. I saw that my suite-mate's door was wide open and no one was there. I went to close the door and just noticed how sad the room looked without anyone there - you could see all of my suite-mate's belongings, evidence of his life there, but in the dark it all looked so lonely, like it had been abandoned or something. So I decided to write this poem about empty rooms. I'm not unhappy with this poem, so that's good. My only issue with it is the ending; I edited it just now to where it is, better than the first draft, which was probably more unfinished than anything, but I'm not sure it's exactly what I want, and it'll need some revisions in the future. Still, it's a nice little poem.
So yeah, nothing else more to say really. Feel free to leave comments and criticisms! Every bit of feedback helps really. I'll see you again next week, internet!
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A Room of None's Own
by Matthew Stalbaum
how sad is the empty room
filled with one's belongings, one's
life in fact, but empty
of the heart, the steady beating
against drawers & drawings, practicalities
& eccentricities;
a room empty
of coughing, late night snoring, dreams
wheezing out of contracting throats,
without the sparkling of bleary eyes
in the open light - moonlight & lamplight
transformed by a face, pale in its absense;
a breath, a blink, a beat:
the room pulses to life - a shut door
seals the soul in the body,
and the room is colored again.
