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Isabella Barrow Poem
Loneliness is a women
she follows me into crowds
Her presence would seem a burden
but really she's not so loud
She's graceful in her walk
elegant and true
If you were to look around
I bet you'd see her too
She is not - a cheery person
no that is not her way
She reminds me more of water
her actions of the wave
She knows exactly what to do to me
she sways how I behave
Her weight upon my body
the crashing of her waves
But I don't mind her coming
For she's become a friend
Someone to rely on
to always come again
In the end she's always with me
walking friend or foe
I find great comfort in knowing
she'll always walk me home
For loneliness is a women
and she follows me into crowds
She's become a great friend
and I think we'll stick around
Copyright © Isabella Barrow | Year Posted 2026
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Isabella Barrow Poem
I cry for the child
who has died within me
I worked ruthlessly for a future
I now spit at in distaste of its name
Friends sneaking away slowly
in hopes of not ribbing from my heart in their departure
Children growing old never knowing it was I
holding on to their youth, in hopes of staying a little while longer
The loss of childhood is a great heartbreak
It's the death of a child, it's the loss of frivolous life
Copyright © Isabella Barrow | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Isabella Barrow Poem
I awake in the stuffy camper living space,
and begin rubbing my hands across my greasy face.
Mosquitoes destined to die fly above, about the neon light.
Friends and family already awake waiting for me outside.
The door opens letting the breeze bring new life to the stuffy room.
Grabbing my white shorts and brown glasses I get up and exit my tomb.
My eyes begin to adjust to spring’s bright gloom.
My brother and childhood friends play by the lake shore,
father is cooking sausage on the little electric grill by the back camper’s door.
I open the fridge door and grab a V8,
while letting the sounds of laughter fill my soul till it aches.
Mom is rocking in her grandmother’s rocking chair,
the smell of pollen and mid-spring flowers fills the air.
I stride past my mom and perch upon the porch rail,
the glistening body of teal takes my breath away without fail
We will laugh, we will play, and be childishly free all day
and wish things would always be this way.
And this my friend is this poet’s ever perfect day.
Copyright © Isabella Barrow | Year Posted 2026
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