Sunshine

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells


The sun is cruel and it is kind.

It makes me feel alive and at times dead.

It fills me with warmth on windy days,

A delightful reprieve from cold

That reigned for so long.

It forces the water out

To cling to my skin

Bringing a flush to my cheeks

And to see green where it does not exist.

It makes my work hard

And my rest at times full of both happiness and loathing.

Some days, I am grateful for the sun.

Some days, I am grateful for the clouds.

Minority

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells


They say minorities are

Suppressed by the color white

But they continue to say that word

Minority.

Is white really the problem?

Or it is the people that say

Those of a non-caucasian complexion

Are minor?

Sun After Winter

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells


I yearn for it.

To bask in its warmth.

To close my eyes

And to turn my chin to the sky.

It covers me like a blanket,

Lulling me into a trance.

Filling my bones

With promises of light.

It kisses my skin

Turning it ever darker.

I have come to relish the sometimes

Burning sensation

It gives me.

I curse the wind on days like this,

Robbing me of moments of warmth

And prickling my skin.

I move away from the shadows

And crowd closely into the light.

With the warmth of the sun

I am content.

I can only hope I use it wisely,

And do not spend so much time in it

That is grows tired of me,

And curses my slowly darkening skin

With a different kind of burn.

Puppeteer

Poem and image created by Isabelle Sorrells


These things attached to me

Thin spider’s silk

Gleaming in the light.

Strands of glass

Unbreakable.

One lifts,

My limbs follow.

I’m at it’s mercy

And it’s command.

I resisted, in the past.

But I have found it easier

To let these strands of glass

Do it all for me.

I never realized

The one who held these chains of control

All along

Keeping me captive

Was me.

Strong Women – A Tribute to Feminism

The poem by Isabelle Sorrells


We all want people to recognize the strength of women.

But it’s gone so far as we need them to recognize it, because if they don’t, somehow, we aren’t.

Aren’t strong.

Aren’t capable.

Or at least, that’s what has become of us.

We have fooled ourselves into thinking if the world sees us for the “strong women” that we are, that will be enough.

As if that ever mattered.

Why has the foundation of our self-esteem become based on the recognition, validation, and submission from others?

I am a child of God; I don’t need the world to tell me who I am.

He loves me more than anyone else ever could.

Because of Him I know my worth.

I don’t need the world’s approval.

God is enough for me.

Skate

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells


Why do I do it?

I trip.

I fall.

I know pavement like a close friend.

Pavement is painful.

My legs are littered with bruises and scrapes

from tricks failed.

So why?

Its exhilerating,

And addicting,

going at speeds

that send my nerves tingling

and shouts of glee

to arise from my throat.

Performing tricks

only possible

on a board.

It forces me

to step out of my comfort zone

and push past my limits,

and to try

and try again

when a trick goes wrong.

Most of all,

It teaches me to get back up again

even after some of my worst falls.

It is my Freedom.

And my Escape.