A poem by Isabelle Sorrells
Sometimes I want to write until I can’t anymore.
Until there are no more words left, until the pages are covered with ink, and the lead and the paint run out.
I want to fill a book with pointless ramblings and fill another with intellectual pursuits and another with my memories, and more with my hopes, my dreams, my thoughts, my screams.
A red one with my letters, a yellow one for my desires, a leather one for my imaginations, a blue one for my speeches, a small one for my secrets, and for my prayers one with writing even on the edges.
I want to tear the pages with the ferocity of my fingers trying to keep up with the thoughts that want to run away from me and be lost to the wind.
I want to break pencils and run pens dry.
Yet here I am writing only one of my thoughts when I have so many more.
What is my excuse?
I have none.
At least, none that are true.
I want to evoke tears from the depths of our empathy and understanding and I want to insight laughter of the kind that fills the places inside us that we didn’t know we had – the places we need it the most.
I want to connect words with feeling and ideas with the mind.
I want to make my Father proud with this gift He has given me, and I want to use it until I can’t anymore.