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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
the day you vanished without telling me,
an unexplained severing
I call nothing short of cowardly.
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!
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.
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.
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
The hardest part of abuse
is that no one else knows any of this.
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.
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.
I hope your Wednesday night was as delicious as mine! I recommend the Aztec Hot Cocoa at Picassos.
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.
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
I wrote this poem a few weeks ago, but it didn’t seem right at the time, so I never posted it. I came back to it tonight and found that all it needed was a new title, a couple of word changes, and one line added in. It feels like a whole new poem now. So weird how that happens.
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 🙂
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?
Tonight I had an impromptu date with my dad. The style of this poem is a little different than my usual, but it was all inspired in the moment.
I should be in bed by now, but I just couldn’t sleep without writing this poem. Now that it’s done, I bid you goodnight…