"claustrophilia" poems - Hello Poetry

Claustrophilia. Sun and vista, shade and microcosm. Raised as a pup on a field in view of the silty wilderness between towers of eerie still-life took the dream of being pulled there from some child civilization, just out of earshot, for granted. On the breach, still making out the patterns of nature in human skin.

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May 3, 2014

May 3, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC

nathan-burgess

Claustrophilia

Claustrophilia. Sun and vista, shade and microcosm. Raised as a pup on a field in view of the silty wilderness between towers of eerie still-life took the dream of being pulled there from some child civilization, just out of earshot, for granted. On the breach, still making out the patterns of nature in human skin.

7

Building dark blanket forts Climbing up into my small closet in the hall Placing pillows in the bathtub and falling asleep My tiny car The library's long, narrow aisles My face in his neck His arm around my waist Sleeping bags that curl up around me The Itty bitty kitchen in my old house Laying on my blanket and rolling myself up into a taco A single seat on a charter bus for 23 hours A road trip from oklahoma to DC (no stops) Sitting in the cabinet and crying My small spaces bring me comfort and peace

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Jun 13, 2017

Jun 13, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC

ChloeWrites

claustrophilia

Building dark blanket forts Climbing up into my small closet in the hall Placing pillows in the bathtub and falling asleep My tiny car The library's long, narrow aisles My face in his neck His arm around my waist Sleeping bags that curl up around me The Itty bitty kitchen in my old house Laying on my blanket and rolling myself up into a taco A single seat on a charter bus for 23 hours A road trip from oklahoma to DC (no stops) Sitting in the cabinet and crying My small spaces bring me comfort and peace

14

Words gone unsaid, hanging in the air like overripe fruit waiting to fall; a sickly sweet guillotine made of things past their prime, cutting through the awkward silence. Pen and sword are equally sharp, being two sides of one coin. Crying disguised as fatigue tears melt into the crowd of rain and sweat; blend in don't smile don't laugh. clouds hide skyfuls of hurt I hide my face in my hands I hide my smile, tuck it away to be used later. happiness preserved for special occasions sadness used only in private. changing faces like changing clothes has become second nature, but I cannot hide from my emotions . a child with a heart as red and raw and open as a wounded hand, goes the story, but this is not a story and this is a wound that won't heal. I stem the flow of ****** red hot emotion and hope for the best. It's claustrophilia, not agoraphobia; look under the table and you will see my private pains, my jealousy pressed between the pages of this book, emotion folded up small and placed in a niche no one can reach. I was meant for moonlight, the low road, "a heartbeat in a volley of heartbeats", so to speak. I used to think solace and solitude meant the same thing and they do. To me.

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Jun 21, 2016

Jun 21, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC

SilverBullet

claustrophilia

Words gone unsaid, hanging in the air like overripe fruit waiting to fall; a sickly sweet guillotine made of things past their prime, cutting through the awkward silence. Pen and sword are equally sharp, being two sides of one coin. Crying disguised as fatigue tears melt into the crowd of rain and sweat; blend in don't smile don't laugh. clouds hide skyfuls of hurt I hide my face in my hands I hide my smile, tuck it away to be used later. happiness preserved for special occasions sadness used only in private. changing faces like changing clothes has become second nature, but I cannot hide from my emotions . a child with a heart as red and raw and open as a wounded hand, goes the story, but this is not a story and this is a wound that won't heal. I stem the flow of ****** red hot emotion and hope for the best. It's claustrophilia, not agoraphobia; look under the table and you will see my private pains, my jealousy pressed between the pages of this book, emotion folded up small and placed in a niche no one can reach. I was meant for moonlight, the low road, "a heartbeat in a volley of heartbeats", so to speak. I used to think solace and solitude meant the same thing and they do. To me.

2