Embrace  I feel the ghost of his arms lingering on my shoulders like hints of cologne left trailed on a pillow, literal miles separating our embrace dissolved by  a connection that transcends physical sensation, his touch echoing all day long regardless of distance.   He holds me even when he doesn't know it, the ghost of his arms warming my core like a coat that keeps the chill away.

It’s been so long since I’ve posted a poem on here that I feel as if I should reintroduce myself. Hi, my name is Leanne. I’ve taken brief hiatuses from She’s in Prison before, usually the result of needing to take time to sort through emotional challenges or press the reset button on life to overcome various struggles. This break, however, was purely the result of being so happy that I didn’t need poetry for a minute.

–Leanne Rebecca

Between the Drops

Between the Drops  I like what this hoodie stands for, caught in the blur of drizzle, hair frizzing in the mist of bipolar rain.  I’d rather stay here, singing in the gray, the tug of war of rainbows and pain, than blind my eyes with unfiltered sun.  —Leanne Rebecca

Sometimes I get mad at myself when I write cliche images, like anything inspired by the weather or an errant flower growing from the cracks of a sidewalk. But as “been there done that” as this poem might be, it doesn’t change that the sentiment behind it is 100% true in this moment.

Shout out to Matt and Kim– “Lookin’ like a king with a hoodie on.”

Good night!

–Leanne Rebecca

As Emo as the Moon

As Emo as the Moon  I thought I’d write about the moon, relate the spectrum of stasis to its phases, as anorexic as its crescent thaw, unhinged in the glow of its full peak.  I thought I’d write about him, the waiting game of lust’s impatience, aging though his silent draw, intoxicated in obsession’s keep.   But as I sing the moon’s luminosity, its brilliance heating in a fever’s stage, I rethink love’s blind fall, and reclaim this heart, this shadowed heap.   The moon will rise tomorrow night and I will scale the expanse of darkened sky, my shoes untied from desire’s draw, free, swept through stars by poetry.   —Leanne Rebecca

Today someone said to me that the light in my eyes has returned. It struck me (in a good way) to hear that. I know the moment that it came back. It was the moment I decided to stop dating.

For three years I’ve bounced from date to date from guy to guy, crashing and burning over and over and over again, convinced in the end that I was incapable of sustaining a romantic relationship, that I was somehow less than, unworthy. The more I dated the more I lost myself.

About a month ago I called it quits, not from exasperation, but from a deep desire to explore my own heart, discover what I love and feed my passions with as much attention as they deserve. For the first time in three years all the pressure is gone and I’m rediscovering the girl I once was, a girl unafraid to sing her spirit, that dances in the car like no one is watching.

I never thought I’d say that the best decision I ever made for myself was to stop dating, after all, we all want to find true love and everyone says the only way to find it is to put yourself out there. But if there’s one lesson I can take away from this last month of soul searching it’s that there’s no hurry.

Take care of yourselves my loves!


Get There

Get There  I held on to where I was going like a baby clutching a necklace, grasping at what dangled in my face, fixated, as if my peripheral vision fogged.   I only saw that one thing I wanted, that one person, that one boy, and no matter how much people yelled to let go, my heart clung, comforted by an autopilot grip.  I didn’t understand  why anyone would peel my fingers  away from that one thing I wanted, until it was gone, my empty hands opened, understanding at last the only way to get there, was to walk away from it all.   —Leanne Rebecca

It’s been a hot minute since I wrote a poem. Lots of life has happened in the past couple weeks and I’ve barely been able to catch my breath. I’ve had to let many ideas die in the wind, barely able to find the time to eat dinner, let alone write anything. I wish time could pause sometimes.

Side note: everything right now is inspired by Paramore.

Good night!

–Leanne Rebecca

Eye Exam

Eye Exam  I can’t write this poem, this convoluted examination  of what’s beyond the skies of my eyes and how once a year my ophthalmologist dilates the irises  and looks inside at the expanse of everything hidden in their mystery.  I can imagine what she sees, the complexity, the rivers and valleys of me converged in a universe of inescapable honesty, can’t hide a thing with that bright light probing my secrets, tracing the timeline of tears bled in the year since my last exam.   —Leanne Rebecca

A lot can happen in a year and no matter how much we try to hide, the crux of it all lives in our eyes, the maps of our story glistening despite the cover of night, a single cast of starlight uncovering the truth.

Much Love,


Wake Me Up

Wake Me Up  The crumbs of yesterday aren’t moving, irritating this space with hyper-stillness: the trash on the kitchen table, yoga mat rolled out on the floor, electric guitar left plugged in, the empty beer bottle and  the peanut butter jar on the counter.  The ghosts of the girl I was yesterday  haunt the room with whispers  of what I couldn’t find today: an identity.    —Leanne Rebecca

This is the type of poetry I write when I’m listening to Wake Me Up When September Ends on repeat. I spent all night learning it on the guitar and the melancholy of it has infiltrated my entire body. A weird place to be right now.

Good night.

–Leanne Rebecca

Monotone Sky

Monotone Sky  The color of dusk forgot to fly today, the sky muted as if  the pigments of sunset all ran together into muddy water, a monotone emotion consuming the horizon line.  My hands clenched the steering wheel, grasping at anything I could hold, I could touch, I could feel in tangible certainty, staring at the gray blue haze beyond the windshield and the numbness of vibrance lost.

Tonight I thought I’d offer a little insight into my writing process. I have a relationship with my notebooks. I can look at each one sitting on my shelf and remember what phase I was going through at the time. That black and tan one with the ripped binding holds the pain of moving away from my best friends after college. The light blue one was filled in a single coffee shop during a period of extreme loneliness while drinking almond milk lattes every day. The pastel swirled one is dedicated to Twenty One Pilots. The zebra striped one holds the heartache of unrequited love. The orange one is when I started facing my demons. I could keep going.

I love holding a pen in my hand and feeling the energy of emotion flow through. I love being able to scribble through thoughts, keeping the record of struggle and indecision tangible. I like that I edit as I go, reminded of the imperfection at every glance. Writing is a messy art and I crave that hand to paper connection. Computers are convenient, but if given the choice I choose a notebook every time.

I hope your weekend was splendid. Sleep well my friends.




Flicker  This candle will burn until the wax evaporates.  I empty the wine in this glass, catch what’s left of me in its wake before the flame desiccates.  I will write by the flicker of this light until the fire dies as intoxication spreads like smoke  through my blood, the energy of blushed cheeks burning in need to capture the story of this moment before it’s too late to remember.   —Leanne Rebecca

Honestly, I didn’t plan on writing today, but I lit a candle on my bedside table and couldn’t help myself. This one’s different, pointless almost, just a moment of life scribed with a glass of wine.

Good night.

–Leanne Rebecca

This Heart that Beats

I wish I knew how to write myself a love letter, wish my arms could wrap around my heart, cradle the weight in my palms and breathe the electricity of the beat, feel the strum of my guitar beneath my fingers, let fly the fear held captive in unbroken tears, and trust that I am beautiful, write that I am beautiful that it doesn’t matter that he couldn’t see it and he couldn’t see it and he couldn’t see it.  I love that I don’t want to pretend that I don’t miss him, heart zipped up, mended as if it had never cracked. I’m mismatched, stitched by time, how some days it disappears and others feel like years, losing moments to old emotions, the fool caught in yesterday,  picking at old scabs.   I wish I could forgive the girl that fell. I want to tell her that I love her and that she should never regret the size of her own heart, her capacity to admire, her courage to feel, her strength to invite him to see her art, even if he couldn’t see it, and he couldn’t see it, and he couldn’t see it.  I want to write myself a love letter, sing my worth, guitar in hand and trust that I am beautiful.   —Leanne Rebecca

I ran out of time today to do everything that I wanted to do. I need to remember that it doesn’t make me a failure, but that my life is full.

Tonight I’m listening to acoustic Sleeping with Sirens and Grizfolk. I want to lose myself in the lyrics like I did yesterday at Warped Tour, closing my eyes and feeling the music of each band, letting it grab hold of my soul and claim a part of me, even for just a second.

I discovered a band called Onward Etc. If there’s one thing you’ll take away from this blog post, it’s to listen to them and find your own poem in their lyrics.

Good night loves.

–Leanne Rebecca