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Best Poems Written by Isabella Clark

Below are the all-time best Isabella Clark poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

Quarantine

Quality time at home has turned into a nightmare.

Under the smile, I’m hiding the true panic for me, for my family, for my 
     community, for my world.

Are we ever going to leave the house, or will we just become an extension of 
     her?

Running around my mind are doubts, superstitions, anxieties.

And the tears, the never ending waterfall of tears that cascade down my face 
     every night. 

Nothing feels the same as it did 3 months ago; I was so happy, so free, so 
     loved.

Time moves so slow, yet so fast, and I’m becoming unable to differentiate 
     between the days.

I’m finally by myself, and I’m peaceful, but only until the loneliness leaves me 
     too much time to think.

Not only am I struggling to stay home, but to stay calm, to even stay alive.

Everyone says it will end, but how do we know?

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

I Want To Be One of the Girls Online

i want to be like the girls online

the girls you searched for 
sought out on your websites
terms put together in incoherent order
shopping for your perfect prize 
which one, which video
curves, lips, thighs, belly, big doe eyes-

her.

she’s the one.
the one that isn’t me.

i want to be like the girls online
no insecurities spoken
(that would kill the mood)
no tears shed
(unless that’s what YOU want)
no complains, no i don’t knows, no buts,
no second guessing no birth control
noperiodsnobodyhairnowomanhood-

if that’s what it takes, 

why won’t
my performances work?

i want to be like the girls online
the ones you keep fantasizing about
teasing you with every angle, giggle, moan
you touch yourself and she’s who you want oh and she smiles at the camera and 
you smile back at her and 
you love her she loves you back and

you finish.

and it wasn’t me,
it was the girl online.

the one that isn’t me.

and she’s like beautiful,
and i can’t blame you.

and i want to be one of the girls online.

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

Our Last Shared Moments

I.
you lead me gently,
my soul brushes against yours;
i’m taken over.

II.
i'm drifting closer.
please let me into your skin.
will you want my love?

III.
my gullible heart,
now emptier than before,
heavily guarded.

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

She

I don't think she needs any sort of introduction.
Forever on my mind, a thought obstruction,
she waltzes through my brain- the angel of seduction.

How could she possibly be of our world?
Her heavenly hair that’s so naturally curled,
And that wonderful face, so pristine and pure.
She is adored by him, too, I am completely sure.

He thinks of her often. She's even in his dreams.
Every single one rips me apart at the seams.
She visits him there, and though it is painful,
I know in my heart that it isn't unfaithful.

But she brings me feelings I haven’t felt before.
A feeling of longing. Is it her I adore?
I understand now why exactly he loves her.
I were him, she would be the one I prefer.

I've come to realize I don’t think I compare.
My hair to hers, though the color we share,
hers is tamed and pristine, unlike mine.
My ugly, choppy hair, the texture of twine.

My boyish body to her feminine curves,
How her perfection can get on my nerves!
Her complexion is favorable, her walk is elite-
There is no fathomable way I can compete.

Maybe I love her, too, for I can now see,
when I truly look through thick clouds of jealousy,
that “she” is the one that I wish was “me”.

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Flowers

Brilliant, fluffy petals
Brought to life by nurturing rain.
Beauty’s purest form.

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Goodbye To the Colorful Past

I miss the colorful past.

I remember how it would blow past me,
encompass my entire being.
Its hues gave me hope,
made my chest swell with glee
when the pure lights danced upon my fingertips.

Until everything changed.

It was when it turned into different shades of grey.
When the memories created despair instead of joy.
They were drug along my skin, deeper and deeper,
leaving big, bloody gashes that wouldn't heal.

My retired dreams, dead right in front of me.
The dreams that had been reality,
now faded into my lifeless corpse.
My dreams, they were snatched away
along with the freedom to be with them.

It was when the sickness spread among us,
when we quarantined to save ourselves,
that I grasped onto my perfect actuality,
desperate to keep it safe, conserve it, 
but it slipped through my fingers.

And so I was alone again.
Those dreams died out. 
Dreams of real friendship.
Dreams of belonging.
Dreams of recently-found normalcy.

Dead, disrupted, dysfunctional dreams.

My painfully perfect, dreamy, recently retired reality.

The colorful, hopeful, clear past
is now ash that blows past me,
pieces tangling themselves into my hair,
bringing sharp pain instead of bittersweet hope.

Where did the blissful life go?
Will she return or is she gone?
Will she truly be dead forever?

Everything is bland now,
both memories and body.
We are lifeless.

I miss the colorful past.

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

I Am

I am
Wednesday morning trips to the local library with my mom and younger siblings,
Wandering wondrous paths through bookshelves bustling with books.
Exploring, savoring, lingering inbetwixt paragraphs, sentences, words.
Spirited away to a fantasy far from my monotonous world.

I am
Impromptu tea parties, tiny rosy teacups, fitting easily in my tiny, delicate hands.
Drinking creamy green Irish breakfast tea, just like Mommy does,
Sneaking a sip of her nutty coffee, sweetened with brown sugar, lighted to a soft beige,
Giggling and rubbing gritty umber coffee grounds between our palms.

I am
Dancing, twirling, leaping to “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” in honey-sweet memories.
Repeating the same album, thrice over, harmonious Celtic melodies, fueling sappy daydreams.
Cherishing the singing birthday cards I’ve received, their chipper voices piercing my ears,
Gleefully opening and closing their bright covers until their songs are garbled and warped.

I am
Reminded of beauty in the juniper-colored liquid depths of my loved ceramic bear mug, 
Kissing his forehead as I sip my favorite Irish breakfast tea, now grown out of creamers.
Strolling through the homely lanes of my memory, a ball of light in my chest.
Seeking her out, and finding that where I look, there she emerges.

I am
Still with my mother.
Carrying her memory, holding it gently, caring for it delicately.
Guided by her hand, her colorful spirit always brightening my smile.

And there she will live on, within me.

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

A Poem Written By Men I Look Up To

“what if this doesn’t work out- we can all still be friends right?”

“you know you can be honest with me, right? i’ll be here for you”

“X, you’re just being neurotic. you are neurotic.”

"no, i'm sure, you're the only one i want"

“i don’t think i’ll stop watching until we have sex because that’s what really turns me on”

“X, i had no idea how much you were hurting. i’ll never do that- i’ll never hurt you again”

“i lied these last two months. every time i said i was looking at you, i was also looking at them.”

“i am worried about you, X.”

my favorite liars.

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

Kiss me and you will see how important I am

Inspired by Sylvia Plath's "Kiss me, and you will see how important I am."

Kiss me, and you will see how important I am
because flesh is a man’s way to try my worth.
Someday, I want you to care to understand me,
but for now, I urge the sensuality to hook him into me.

Yes, flesh is a man’s way to try my worth–
flesh is the first layer of it all.
So I pray my sensuality will hook him to me.
I know no other way to be wanted.

Flesh is the first layer of it all,
so kiss me because it’s the only bait I have.
I truly know no other way to make myself wanted
other than offering a taste of my physical cage.

Kiss me because it’s the only trap I have,
desperately trying to capture you, enrapture you.
By providing a taste of this physical cage
will you want a glimpse of my mind?

And I am determined to capture you, enrapture you,
just so you might care to understand me.
Maybe, someday, you’ll care for a glimpse of my mind, but
kiss me! I’m begging you to see how important I am.

Details | Isabella Clark Poem

to the Man In My Head

Man In My Head, 

You live there– 
(here I should say) 
but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that.
You’re the one making your space.

You’re forever within the confines of my mushy, distorted headspace;
so I ought to pay you a visit.

Ah, Man In My Head, you’re quite wonderful–
you know that, right?

My puppet–you can’t hurt me if I’m the one controlling you.
	You don’t make me sick with shame, regret, disillusionment–not like they do.
My shapeshifter–you morph into different beings, taking on whom and what I need most.
	And, that, Man In My Head, is why you don’t have a name.
My comfort–you’re there when I need you; you disappear when I don’t.
But an idea can only soothe someone for so long.

You aren’t like them, Man In My Head,
You’re different!
	(because I made you that way)

My guarded heart can open to your gleaming eyes (honey brown today), guaranteeing safety. 
I’m daring myself–deluding myself–to believe in you.
Yet–you’re just a dream, 
my dream.

And, here I am, waiting.
Working in solidarity with delusions, dreams, deceptions—
contentedly coping and waiting and pining
for you, Man In My Head.

AND YOU DON’T EXIST !

A figment of my imagination, guaranteeing the impossible “safety”, 
but never enough to save me completely,
and that’s all that you are.

My single pill of ibuprofen to soothe the pain of a severed limb,
the pollution permeating my body could be purified by your embrace,

But, Man In My Head, you’re not real! 
	(please disagree with me, please be real)

I wish it were you that could
trace the soft palms of my fragile hands,
caress the warm plains of my forearms,
delicately dancing your fingers over the emerald and mauve running under my skin.

The Others aren’t so nice, Man In My Head.

Man In My Head, you always stay with me.
Thank you for that.

Yet, no matter how much I wish, I hope, I wait,
you are nothing more
–you can’t be anything more–
than

the man in my head.