Posted in desire, dream, fear, heart, hope, introspection, invisibility, journal entry, life, loneliness, love, poetry, story, struggle, writing

Birthday Brunch

Birthday Brunch

Regardless of my social ineptitude and longing for human connection, it was a delicious (and vegan) brunch at one of my favorite places. I woke up a little sad yesterday and that sadness followed me all morning and into the afternoon. Sometimes eating a roasted apple crepe with peanut butter and drinking a sunburnt white Russian on a sunshiny day does not negate whatever emotion nags in your heart. The sadness waned though in the afternoon, thanks to a massage, some quiet time with a book at a coffee shop, and a dinner out with my parents and brother. A bipolar birthday for sure.

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Posted in love, poetry

Ghost Hunting

Ghost Hunting  He appeared in front of me like an apparition.  I blinked for weeks, expecting the lights to stop playing tricks on my eyes, but the evidence of his existence only solidified as this spirit before me exposed its form, no longer desire’s ghost, but a corporeal truth affirmed by touch, my ear to his chest, his beat, by the pain in my cheeks, laughing from joke to joke, and by the promise  that we could see the other, that it was real.   —Leanne Rebecca

She’s in Prison has been my baby for 2 1/2 years, and possibly the most crucial 2 1/2 years in terms of growing up. I can look back through the archives and relive all the phases of my early 20’s. Now I enter a new phase of discovering who I am while sharing all of me with another person.

If you’ve noticed my absence on here the past couple months it’s because I’ve been doing just that: dedicating every spare moment I have to falling helplessly in love.

I hope you had a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Embrace

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

Posted in growing up, love, poetry

Self

Self  In third grade they made us write acrostic poems set to our names, assigning adjectives like “artistic,” to our letters, falling on generic phrases: “L-loves animals.”  We wrote “I am” poems in education’s attempt to encourage self-reflection,  “I am a daughter, a friend, a sister.” I am me.  I hated poetry,  misled by an eight year old’s agony to sit at a table and reflect on breathing, trapped in the command  to notice when I inhaled and exhaled.  I hated that mirror, the image of thinking deeply, of trying to understand the origins of feeling.   I was a child of possibility, of adventure, of laying patches of moss carpet in our backyard treehouse, unconfined by reality, unwilling to understand the structures of my own personality, imagining space and time all my own, free from this idea of pausing, of judging myself through writing.  In high school I disappeared, swallowed by sweatshirts, sucked inward as if a black hole swirled in my brain, afraid to talk, afraid to look past the layers of dust settled between me and all the other desks in class, bottling in silence, getting by, imploding alone.   I collected those years in journals, verses and verses of history, the days of invisibility caught in tangibility, the me never seen  exploding in newfound creativity, through discovery, soul awakened  in the days of university, speaking and hearing a voice  with something to say, people listening, through feeling through feeling finally feeling, a new me, a poet.

In second grade I thought I was going to grow up to become a librarian. In fourth grade I saw a documentary about a cave diving marine biologist and decided I’d become a scientist, a dream that lasted until my senior year in high school when I realized I didn’t in fact like studying biology at all. Never through all those years did I think I’d grow up to be a poet. It’s a passion I fell into through taking a chance, one that took coaxing to start, but one I will never regret.

I’ve written a lot about heartbreak lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Poetry is the outlet that lets me heal, my real true love. No matter where my heart drifts or cracks, it will always have a home in words. Thank you for listening and letting me sing.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in desire, love, poetry

If We’d Never Met

If We’d Never Met  I thought about you this week, flashback tripped by a song you told me to listen to months ago.  I wonder if I purged these memories, cleansed of you and your ghost, would I lose the strength built in their wake.  Could I trade this newfound backbone for a life without the ache buried  in the rings of my frame, forgetting the moment my heart sped, falling faster than the warning of the break?  Would I give up discovering the complexity of love, a depth unlocked as my desire awakened hearing my voice for the first time, vulnerable, flawed, scared, alive in exchange for freedom?  —Leanne Rebecca

I looked at the clock around 9:45 tonight and thought, man, I’m going to get to bed early, finally get a decent amount of sleep to kickstart my Monday without watering eyes and sluggish limbs. But then the itch began, the compulsion tingling behind my forehead, radiating to my fingertips, the cusp of a poem aching to spill out. So here we are, an hour later, an hour of sleep lost to creative whims.

Good night, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in inspiration, love, poetry

Numbers

Numbers

The original first line of this poem was “Started from not knowing what to write about.” I haven’t been writing much lately, which creates a void in my creative heart. I crave expression, whatever method it may come in: writing, singing, interpretive dancing under the influence of many glasses of wine, etc. This week’s been expressionless and I hate that repression of my inner child that needs to be heard, needs to shout out how I’m feeling and run around in circles without care of judgment or behavioral norms.

I put myself in a box this week. Don’t be reckless, Leanne. Don’t go out on the weekdays. Don’t drink so much wine. Stop sending your friends so many pointless texts. Do more yoga and eat salad. Don’t spend unwarranted money.

It’s like in trying to be the “better,” more responsible “adult” I lost a piece of myself along the way. One of my friends commented a few days ago that it seemed like I had lost my playfulness, my sarcastic positivity and joy for what I love. I told her I didn’t know what was wrong with me. There wasn’t anything specific to complain about. Nothing was wrong, and yet everything.

This weekend I’m crawling back out of that pointless box, starting with this much needed poem and this journal entry that has taken over this blog post.

Cheers!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry, writing

To Take the Chance

To Take the Chance

I’ve loved and been broken, dated again and been disappointed, and started the process all over again. Putting your heart on the line is exasperating, terrifying, and exciting and sometimes we feed off that exhilaration and put ourselves out there and other times we can think of nothing worse than going on a date. I wish I could say that taking the chance on love is always worth it. I’ve had several experiences where the heartache outweighed the benefit of telling someone that you like them. I just hold on to the hope that one of these days I’ll find that person that is as stoked to take the chance on me as I am for them. In the meantime, I write.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in friendship, love, poetry

Nothing Weird About It

Nothing Weird About It   They made fun of me— that I liked punk music, drawn towards androgynous men with eyeliner and tattoos, that I never outgrew the teenage emo stage.  They called me names— derogatory jabs to bring me down, politically, socially, morally incorrect pet names, mongoloid, useless and naive.   They teamed up to abuse me— attacking my secret vulnerability, extreme ticklishness, backing me into the corner of the room, physically pinning me down, outnumbered.  They ignored my texts called me out  flipped me off berated my diet told me I was weird.   A gravitational field pulled me towards them— the sarcastic ones, friends gifting vulgarity as if “fuck you” had replaced the words “I love you.” I’d never trade any of it.   —Leanne Rebecca

There’s no magic formula to finding best friends. They manifest from unlikely places and often the people you may have felt hesitant to let into your world end up being the ones that mean the most. Once you find them though, you never let them go.

Tonight I’m feeling thankful.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in desire, love, poetry

Geometry

We’ve aligned ourselves in a conundrum, standing in a circle that doesn’t connect, dancing round and round this game of heartache, tripping out of line, falling in passion's trap, waiting for the hand next door to pull us back into the flirtation of friendship, the guise of fitting together, sucked deep into the mystery of not quite chemistry, the him and the me and the him and the her and the us confused by timing, by equations we can’t solve. So we walk side by side at an impasse, frustrated by the same emotion, all in love but not with the right one.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. One of my best friends just got engaged and we’ve been talking about how she knew that he was her partner for life. Her answer, simple and honestly vague, is that something deep inside her just knew.

There’s no common factor that can explain why sometimes we feel romantic chemistry and sometimes we don’t. There’s no trick to lining up that connection. I’ve always been someone that feels it right away and in my experience, no matter how much time I spend with a person doesn’t change whether or not that spark is there. I do believe that love is a decision, ultimately, but it’s foundation is built upon that invisible force that draws you to each other. It’s frustrating when chemistry just misses or when bad timing prevents the heart from sensing it. There are no set paths to falling in love and that exploration, that heartbreak, that discovery, that journey is why we write.

Posted in love, poetry

Heart in Her Head

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 love, poetry

Always and Forever

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