Posted in poetry


I am not innately anything,

born as a canvas

on which I adorn my life’s choices,

the writer of the words

I speak,

the artist of my path,

my shoes leaving prints of paint

where I’ve stepped,

my words staining ears,

training my heart to love

or to shame,

owning the power to

smile a good morning

to you.

  –Leanne Rebecca

I saw a post on a friend’s Facebook this morning that simply said “in a world where we can choose to be anything, choose to be kind” and it really struck me. I think this is something many people forget and it includes kindness to yourself too. It’s easy to judge others unfairly for stupid reasons just because we can. It’s easy to focus on our flaws and our stresses, steeped in negativity. It’s hard to be kind when we’ve wired our brains to live in a frenzy, always rushing as we emotionally and physically push people out of our ways to get where we are going. We honk our cars and don’t let others merge in front of us on the highway, but why? It’s hard to choose to patient. It’s hard to choose to smile when nothing seems to be going right. It’s hard to accept other’s differences because they’re foreign to what we know, but we have to try. We have to celebrate one another. We need to make the choice to love, always. Love yourself, love your neighbor, love a stranger.

Posted in poetry

It Wasn’t Nothing


I don’t like the power

you hold over me,

the power I let you

hold over me,

clinging to rain stained memories

as insignificant in retrospect

as their simplicity—

holding my hand in the car.

I don’t like revisiting

that moment,

knowing now how little it meant to you

as it stained my life

with impossible desire

as childish as a birthday wish.

I don’t like the compulsion

to write about holes

that shouldn’t exist,

the ridiculousness of caring

for someone that viewed me as a blink.

I can’t stop thinking.

    –Leanne Rebecca

When it comes to the heart, it’s amazing how quickly it can be hurt, that even the most meaningless action to one person can devastate another. The only perspective we ever really have is our own, especially when all of the sudden, perceived truths turn out to be wrong. This is my fancy way of saying that dating is hard.

Sleep well my friends.

Posted in poetry

At Night


The 2 AM heart

lingers a little more

on each beat

so that the in-between

silences feel all the heavier,

the pulse crawling with the time

in contrast to the mind

cycling through imaginary conversations

like a wind turbine,

the body and the spirit out of sync

in the darkness of wasted sleep.

          –Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry




I need to write this letter that I’ll never send

to get all my thoughts out of my head

and for you to understand

that am not ok with how you left it.

You severed my reached out hand

with words left unsaid,

which hurt just as much as a deliberate hit,

bruising my cheeks with streaks of red.

You left,

vanishing with no regrets,

as sudden as if you were dead,

and yet here I stand,

hoping to see your ghost again.

I know my heart will mend,

a new man will take my reached out hand

and care for these thoughts in my head.

He’ll understand

that honesty is a gift

that tempers the madness of the broken hearted.


I felt like the discard pile,

like you were playing cards

striving only for the better hand,

throwing away the rejects

with a smug grin and satisfaction for the win,

apathetic that I am a person.


The memory of you

is like static on a TV,

as dynamic as a blank screen

with the drone of garbled electricity.

What once filled my imaginings

with vivid scenes of dancing

and cheesy chemistry

was demeaned

the day you vanished without telling me,

an unexplained severing

I call nothing short of cowardly.

–Leanne Rebecca

I don’t often post more than one poem in a post, but I needed to get these out. Time to heal and get on with the weekend!

Posted in poetry

Public Melody


This room is so loud I can’t hear anything,

the voices blending into one sound,

a buzz that fills the air with silence.

I welcome the chaos,

the distraction of nonsense

that quiets my disquiet,

so I can sip on this glass of wine

and not think

about empty seats,

lost in noise.

–Leanne Rebecca

I shared one of my poems with my friend Gabby a couple days ago and was shocked to find out she had no idea that I write poetry. After 5 years of having this blog, I assumed everyone in my life was keenly aware of my writing. I share most of my posts on Facebook, which after hundreds of posts, has probably reached the level of annoying. Gabby asked me a little about my poetry, if I use it as a form of therapy or if I’m open to publish or share some of my more vulnerable posts with others, like the one I wrote about abuse last week. These questions seemed so easy to answer since poetry has become such a marker of my identity, but it made me realize how lucky I am to have found this outlet. Writing is indeed a release and a medium I use to work through tough shit. It’s helped me heal through life’s difficulties, like an abusive relationship, and I don’t know where I’d be without it. Many of my poems carry a solemn tone because of this, but I want you all to know that I am far from sad. Writing allows me to let go of whatever ails me, so that as soon as it’s on the page, I feel free. I’m working through something right now, and I haven’t fully written out its story, but in time, the words will come out and I’ll rise up again.

Posted in poetry


It was the middle of a packed dancefloor

where his kiss transported me

to a dimension all ours,

one where everyone else vanished,

where I felt only his lips on mine,

his hands on my waist,

our pulses pounding in tandem,

the chaos of the world disappearing

as I let my heart lean into his arms.

It was a magic

I hope to know again.

                –Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry

Silent Tears

The hardest part of abuse

isn’t the getting through it

or climbing your way back

out of a dirt filled hole

until you find the sun again,

the hardest part of abuse

is the invisibility of the damage,

that even years after you’ve escaped,

after you’ve healed,

after you’re no longer a shell of a person,

after you’ve opened yourself up again

to loving another human,

after you’ve accepted it

and can freely talk about the atrocities

of how someone preyed upon you like a wild animal,

you discover that no matter how strong you are

or how much you’ve learned

or how easily you smile again,

the scars remain.

The anxiety of the hunt

has imprinted inside your skull,

a tattoo seeping fear into your bloodstream,

no matter how safe or good or joy filled

you’ve grown.

The hardest part of abuse

is that no one else knows any of this.

–Leanne Rebecca

I haven’t written anything in awhile and I think it’s because I’ve been trying to find a way to get these thoughts out, but didn’t know the words.

Posted in poetry

A Wishful Sip

Hot Cocoa

I found heart shaped clouds

swirled in my hot chocolate,

a kiss of good luck

brought to my lips

with the giddiness of a kid

looking up at the sky

seeing what magic I might find,

if I allow innocence

to guide my eyes.

     –Leanne Rebecca

I hope your Wednesday night was as delicious as mine! I recommend the Aztec Hot Cocoa at Picassos.

Posted in poetry

Highly Sensitive Person

My heart is like the sky,

wrapping around the horizon

like a hug for the souls below,

an embrace that connects

me to you

across the expanse of the Earth.

I can feel the world

inside my ribs

and sometimes I fear

my chest will explode.

–Leanne Rebecca

I’m trying something new tonight. I’m letting the words speak for themselves without influencing the interpretation of my poetry by presenting it with a picture. It’s always nice to mix it up. Let me know what you think!

This poem is dedicated to my wonderful friend Katie 🙂

Much love, Leanne

Posted in poetry

Root Bound

Root Bound

The bittersweet truth of struggle is that it serves as unending inspiration for creativity. The beauty of poetry is that it serves as an outlet for struggle. The sadness of poetry is that it is eternal, which means the struggle becomes entombed in history.  I’ve been writing a lot lately, thankful for the inspiration but fighting the sadness of it.

Thank you for reading 🙂


Posted in poetry

Tree of Life

Tree of Life

A piece of profound artwork has an incredible ability to stick its hands in our brains and pull out our deepest secrets, emotions, and stories. Great art also seems to chant the words “buy me” in an angelic chorus. Most of the time I can’t afford it, but little splurges have been known to happen. When my impulses get the better of me,  I have to rearrange the art I have hanging on my walls to find the perfect spot to showcase its majesty. Has anyone else experienced this?