Author: SHE'S IN PRISON

Poetry and music.
Posted in beauty, poetry, truth

Empowerment

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Empowerment It’s the neck of a guitar worked by painted nails, edges worn, life’s living evidenced in imperfection. It’s wind dried hair flying across sun blushed cheeks, car windows down, driving 80 on the highway, music so loud the engine’s silent. It’s doing another set of 10 dead lifts as that man watches again, hovering like a wasp across the room, obsessive eyes flickering with a stinger’s bite. It’s sweat soaking the back, snaking down the collarbone, stinging the eyes and blinking through it, not letting 90 degree heat or parched lungs win. It’s crying with zeal, the passion of explosion, admitting truth in tears, relinquishing all control and letting it out, saying it all, feeling it all, the bravery of vulnerability. —Leanne Rebecca

Empowerment is writing a poem instead of falling apart. Empowerment is writing a poem in spite of falling apart. Empowerment is falling apart and writing about it the next day.

Good night my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, identity, poetry

Angry Poem

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Angry Poem I fought until I was the fool, until every word I said compounded insignificance, tacking on weightless syllables that fizzled into nothing as if I hadn’t said a thing at all, a person without a voice, not a person at all. For a moment I let the silence stick, crushed by insecurity as if speaking would reveal weakness, repulsed by my thoughts, my impulses, my actions, letting it all get to me regretting my voice regretting me. But something felt wrong to write about deficits, to strip away the intention of all those things I said, to say the meaning meant nothing. Those words mattered, fucking mattered, because I matter.

Don’t ever let someone make you feel like you don’t have a voice or that your voice has no weight. Be heard. Be yourself and be heard.

I love you guys.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, writing

Elemental

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Elemental I thought about going to sleep with the eye makeup still on, convinced that choosing to strip off that layer would rob me of self expression, vanquish the artistic beauty screaming from this morning’s play when no one was around as I spent an hour reworking pigments, trying again and again until obsession and satisfaction married and I fell in love with what I’d created. There’s no denial of vanity, living in reflection, caring what the eyes see blinking behind masks, disposable self-mutilation inflicted again and again with intention, to impress, to cry out these feelings inside that need to escape, to beg to be seen in the irony of hiding. It wasn’t just removing eye liner as I forced the cotton ball across my lid. It was wiping away today’s identity, the me I wanted to be, the words I couldn’t say entrenched in how heavily I caked the black: my lashes coated in heart, a persona crafted by my own hand to detract from the one underneath the smudges, the paint washed away by late night confessions, evidence lost in the sink, another day, another girl forgotten.

It’s almost 2 in the morning and my eyes are burning from keeping them open too long. I didn’t sleep much last night either. I have this frustrating urge to keep fighting, to push a little longer. I don’t think I’ve ever posted a poem this late, or early, depending on how you see it, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to get these words out. I needed to try. I just need to keep trying.

Good night now,

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

Accomplishment

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Accomplishment That those days that suffocated like sitting in a locked car with the windows up, 100 degrees pouring in through the scorch of inescapable rays, heat escalating, air stagnant, poisonous— That those moments lost to numbness as she sobbed in that car, nowhere to drive no one to call no feelings left to drip down her cheeks, trapped in a tomb still living— That those fears of never finding a reason to get out of the car, a reason to breathe anything but stale air, to drink anything but salt riddled tears— have passed without consequence, memories relegated to notebooks and dusty poems, means more than any award she’d ever earned— the accomplishment of learning to live again. —Leanne Rebecca

Posted in destiny, poetry, writing

Reclaimed

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Reclaimed She’d relinquished her existence long ago to everyone and everything but her own volition, accepting she couldn’t control the crying of the clouds, the sky exerting dominance on the people wrapped underneath like prisoners of a dictator. She let ominous intimidation tell her how to feel: tears breaking when it stormed, sadness infused in flash floods, billowing into the drains on the street, running below the city in an undercurrent of gloom. She lost sight of possibility, that even if it rained she could dance, that happenstance could align in spite of the wind fighting opposition with gusts of yesterday’s debris, that if she looked at the clouds from a different angle she could imagine whatever shapes she wanted. She stumbled with the sky’s discretion, thrown whatever direction its will decreed, falling to her knees, begging for mercy as her heart admitted defeat. She stared up at the sky, at the expanse of gray beckoning and heard nothing, realizing only then, that she’d imagined the grip on her destiny, that she could reclaim the faculty of living and just be.

This one is inspired by “Fight Song” by Rachel Platten. It’s been my anthem over the past month or so.

Have a great rest of your weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

A Voice Lost

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A Voice Lost I wish I could find any reason at all to lay your name in these lines, to replace blank space with quiescence, silence with fire, to find a song at all.

What’s on your mind?

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Heart in Her Head

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The Heart in Her Head She covered up her heart with polka dots and sarcasm, playing at make believe under guise of changing the subject, diverting attention with sideways sunshine, casting her confidence with wide eyes, shoulders back, and sass to match his sight line. She covered up her heart beating louder than whatever she managed to play off with elementary flirtation— I make fun of you on the playground because I like you. He skipped over her heart because he couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear the falter in its electricity. She made sure of that, driving them away with words before their ears hit her chest and heard the magnets beneath her clothes tearing at the muscle beating, the pull stronger than logic, the heart bigger than her brain, the force that explained all the words, even the ones meant to pretend she didn’t feel a thing. —Leanne Rebecca

I haven’t posted two poems in one day since maybe the first month of She’s in Prison, over 2 years ago. I guess the inspiration is flowing tonight. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve never been one to have self control and though I could have waited to post this until tomorrow, I needed to get it out now.

Good night loves.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in desire

Deja Vu

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Deja Vu She fought old habits with an almost perfect record, suppressing the desire inside her stomach with the willpower of ignoring nausea, swallowing until the feeling abated, closing eyes until the chunks receded, breathing through each moment and winning. All it took was a single lapse in control for the sickness to rise and remind her of how it felt the last time she fell and his touch and in that second of concession she made the mistakes again in characteristic progression, a single sliver of time to lose herself and everything she’d worked to change. —Leanne Rebecca

My biggest life advice at the moment is to try not to overthink everything. Easier said than done, I know.

Have a splendid rest of your day, friends.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

Up to Here

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Up to Here A 3 pm glass of wine— that’s where she turned after all the preceding hours in the day dried up the patience she’d forgotten to stockpile for times when dust betrayed perspective.

In the moment.

Have a great long weekend!

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, writing

Terrible Idea

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Terrible Idea There wasn’t an objective at the start, just desire— just pieces misaligned and confused by too many rhymes. I didn’t know whether or not it was a terrible idea, whether or not the pieces would come together, but I had to try. I took a leap of faith, jumped into the air before I knew what type of landing I’d fall to. Turns out the pieces cracked further when I hit the ground, a conflict of concrete and bone, and a lot of words that hurt.

This was not the poem that I set out to write tonight. In fact I’m feeling a little blocked.

This might be a no no to admit, but I’m not even sure what it’s about, not really. It’s a mashup of several story lines, as if all my demons of the past 3 years are fighting for attention but none of them are winning. This isn’t supposed to be a sad poem, just a reflection.

Our lives are composed of the intertwining of faith and falling. No matter where you are in that process, I hope you are at peace.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in life, love, poetry

The After Poem

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The After Poem I couldn’t tell if the light shinning in my room was from the sun or the street lamp camped outside my window. Time was irrelevant, days blurred together by Fireball, unsure if the sickly gnawing in my stomach was hunger or the early stages of a hangover. I rolled over and covered my head with my comforter, choosing the sweaty hotbox of blankets in the summertime over spilled light in my eyes. When I woke up again I heard my roommate talking. Morning. Another human. Still alive. I drank a glass of water and realized I felt ok. The slosh in my stomach had abated with sleep. All I’d needed was time. For the first time in two years I was ok, more than ok. Ready.

The most cathartic moment of struggle is when you realize you aren’t struggling anymore. Yesterday was my 25th birthday and today is a new beginning.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Destiny

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Destiny She knew she was a poet when she let the tears break and blur the facade on her face, running black from the tip of her nose to the page below her palm. She collected all the faith she’d once put into him in an envelope and sealed it away, letting the waterfall smudge all the words she’d ever written. She knew she was a poet in that moment, the need to write her heart as crippling as the moment she met him, just a memory, a fleeting love, old journal entries filed away. He was gone, but she wrote anyway, falling over and over for her passion. She didn’t need to learn to love again, because her soul was already home.

It’s ok to cry, always. I wrote this one in the last five minutes through a waterfall on my face. I’m so thankful to have all your support on here. Means everything.

This one is for my friend Katie.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Always and Forever

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Always and Forever I don’t know how I forgot about that book. I saw it in the window of a used bookstore last week, stumbling into childhood nostalgia as if jumping into a puddle, both feet all at once, splashed by flashes of of my mom cradling me in her arms, singing the made up melody to the song in that forgotten book. I’m amazed I learned to sleep without her hug, without her voice rocking me into dreams, without the comfort of a mother in the room down the hall, amazed I could wake without the gentle coaxing of her singing and the warmth of her arms holding me, assuring me that she’d keep me safe. Wake up Leanne, wake up Leanne, wake up, wake up, wake up, she’d sing, coaxing my eyes to open, teaching me through song how to fill a room with love, and bright eyed soak it up with the morning sun. I always felt ready for the day, nurtured by her hand in mine, fingers always and forever intertwined until the moment she knew she could let go, taking off the training wheels to my bicycle, and watch me ride alone. —Leanne Rebecca

I write this poem with extreme thanks for the blessed life that I’ve led, a carefree childhood and loving family. I recognize that Mother’s Day isn’t rainbows and butterflies for many people: mothers that have lost their children, children that have lost their mothers, broken families, reality. Even in my family, there’s an element of sadness on this day. My parents buried their first child when she was 16 months old. This is also the first Mother’s Day since my Grandma Genny died.

It’s easy to forget that many many emotions surround this day and where one family smiles another might cry. It’s important to empathize and take a moment to think about the true weight of this day. I find it allows me to appreciate what I have that much more. I’m beyond thankful to be filled with so much love.

I love you, Mom.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in Music, poetry

The Biggest Disappointment

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The Biggest Disappointment He never knew the real me— the first year too nervous to say the wrong thing, the second pretending to be something else so he would see me as whatever it was he wanted that wasn’t me, trapped in someone else’s poetry, obsessed with this image, starving my integrity, my body, to play a game he didn’t want to play until I pushed and pulled so hard that I lost the one person that understood that words are not just words, ever, lost, before he even heard me.

We all make mistakes. Some carry a little more weight than others and the consequences rain harder. There’s no trick to overcoming mistakes, except maybe to let go of regret.

I went to a Matt and Kim concert last night. They have this one song called “Now” that sums it up perfectly:

I know that things aren’t perfect
But lets make tonight worth it
Stand up right here take a bow
And we will all ride this thing down
Now

All we can do is move forward and accept our imperfections, accept our mistakes, and try with all our might to not make the same ones again. No guarantees though, and that’s ok. For now, make the most of today.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry

Misfit in a Typecast World

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Misfit in a Typecast World I stood in line outside the venue breathing the exhaust of smokers’ lungs, coughing, unsure how to navigate the polluted air. No one else seemed bothered, accustomed to clouds following their groups -- stereotyped— punk kids that started smoking at age 13 because everyone else was doing it. The room already smelled of sweat even though the first band hadn’t started yet, leftovers from the last show, grunge encrusted walls, corners on posters curling in the humidity, a hotbox of male testosterone building as the space in front of the stage filled. I was the only one in the room without a facial piercing or gauged ears, at home in Kate Spade earrings, cheeks pinked with Pinot Noir, not dressed in head to toe black or a band t-shirt. I leaned against the wall, collecting the scene in future nostalgia of the time I took myself to a local band’s show, a misfit in a typecast world, the preppy girl alone in the corner that knew every word, every single song, and danced harder than the guy with spikes instead of a face

Don’t put yourself in a box.

–Leanne Rebecca