Category: art

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Monotone Sky

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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.

Love,

Leanne

Posted in art, poetry, story

Flicker

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, Music, poetry

This Heart that Beats

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, honesty, poetry

Fade

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Fade Forgotten at 80 miles an hour, headlight after headlight found and lost again, boxes kicking up dirt from the road, moving the dust of passing time, the remnants of traction shifted in changing flight, machines, the people inside faceless to the night. I’m invisible as I drive and know the tail lights ahead can’t see me cry or wonder why my hand rips at my hair as I choke on lyrics, words caught like flies in my windpipe, bowing to the mercy of whatever needs to be screamed and silenced before I reach home. Would he notice if I faded into the shadows between the street lamps, pulled the car to the side of the road and abandoned this enterprise? Or has he forgotten my face, my name as I speed along the highway in my box, collecting dead bugs, nameless to sight.

This poem didn’t capture everything that I needed to say tonight. I’m not sure what it is that I need to say right now or really what emotion I’m currently feeling. Everything tonight is nameless and blurry, and that’s how I feel about this poem. It works because it’s messy and introspective and unclear and honest, but it’s still missing something. It’s missing heart.

Good night my friends,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, introspection, poetry

Brainstorm

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Brainstorm I could write about how the clouds changed green and gray building rage tension charging in the air the tornado siren the single drop of rain that punched my shoulder how my pace quickened to get back home could write about the graffiti on the sidewalk spray paint mocking craftsmanship the littering of rebellion could write about the guy in the parking lot that chucked a beer bottle out of his jeep window how he didn’t know I’d seen that I didn’t pick up the trash once he’d driven off could write about the memory on replay: the first time I saw him the burn of a heart pre-breaking how I knew he’d be a problem before knowing his name that he wouldn’t care either way could write about how the sky waited to shed its tears until I got back inside back to the dark room and the leftover balloons from last night the sadness aching in their silence could write about anxiety how I felt alien to my body today atrophied by a need to escape nowhere to go not sure who to go with or why breathing seemed daunting in that moment. —Leanne Rebecca

I didn’t know what to write about so I wrote about it all.

Posted in art, desire, poetry

A Walk in the Rain

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Walk in the Rain The gray consumed the cheer of daylight like a spreading fire engulfing its surroundings, a presence as looming as the fear of asking a crush on a date. I walked outside anyway, daring the sky to rain its demons down and envelop my body with discomfort, wet and cold and scared of the thunder. Exhilarated I kept pace, seething with confidence, willing to take the chance the storm could explode before I got home.

I’m more scared of being trapped inside all day than getting a little wet in the rain. Take the chance, always.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tricked The room dimmed with the sunset, the space that hours before had been filled with conversation— friends drinking champagne, investing fractions of their lives in sharing time— now faded into shadow, the imprint of connection dying as we drifted back to segregation, alone in introspection’s isolation as if the party had never happened, as if he’d never talked to me, as if they’d never met, as if our imaginations tricked us into believing loneliness isn’t a chronic disease. —Leanne Rebecca

There’s something about the close of the weekend that requires epic introspection. Now is the time, when everyone is winding down and setting their Monday morning alarm clocks, to take a few moments and reflect on what’s running most prominently through your brain.

Sometimes I struggle with these hours of solitude, feeling lost in their isolation, afraid of the silence. Other times I welcome the freedom. Tonight I feel both with equal weight.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, identity, poetry

Angry Poem

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 art, poetry

Accomplishment

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 art, poetry

A Voice Lost

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 art, poetry

Up to Here

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 art, Music, poetry

Misfit in a Typecast World

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, poetry

Warning

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Warning There’s an explosive in my vagina at the ready to detonate, controlling the words I say, the who’s I manipulate, the culprit of the mistakes I didn’t mean to make. There’s an explosive in my vagina, implanted and yelling like a second brain, demanding and taunting, ravaging self-restraint until the regrets pile up like beer bottles at a party.

Back in college, in the one and only poetry class I ever took, my teacher looked us all in the eye and said, “If you’ve never written a poem about sex, you should.” I questioned whether or not it was a good idea to post this poem on here, but for the sake of being real, I decided to go for it. I wrote this in the afternoon while having a casual conversation with my roommate about going to the gynecologist.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, desire, poetry, writing

Sunday Morning

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Sunday Morning She woke with a breath, a single stream of light shooting like an arrow into her squinting eye. She stretched her arms wide, covering the expanse of the empty bed, hand lingering on the untouched pillow, longing tensing in her stomach like starvation. She hated the need for him, that he consumed her first thoughts on a Sunday morning, that he robbed her sanity. She rolled over, gathering an armful of comforter, hugging tight, cuddling something other than emptiness, holding on to something other than all the words she’d said to a brick wall.

I like the freedom of Sunday mornings, that I could sleep indefinitely if I wanted, that I can waste the morning making pancakes and then eat them in bed. I rarely make plans for Sundays, just drift through the day and see what happens, let who I see be a surprise.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

My Corner

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

My Corner I microwaved leftover frozen pizza for breakfast. It was all I could do, sit by myself in this chair in the corner eat the damn soggy pizza and try to not think about last night.

Poetry can be whatever you want it to be.

–Leanne Rebecca