Category: poetry

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tiny Brains

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tiny Brains It was a Sunday night, the day before Labor Day. We laid on the ground outside of the bowling alley. She sat on the curb first. I mimicked her artistry, knees crumpling, muscles oozing like jelly, slinking to the ground in a glob until I’d surpassed sitting and settled on horizontal stargazing. We played out the therapy session, a cement couch counting the justifications— why I texted him, why she felt betrayed— we vomited honesty, beer-numbed confessions of hearts the size of our confusion, the hearts that led us to fall on our backs in a parking lot and brains too small to sit on a bench.

Katie, this one’s for you.

I’ve gathered from my Facebook newsfeed that Monday was rough. Too many hearts and brains are fighting. Thank God it’s Tuesday, folks. Call a truce, and then celebrate with pancakes.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Sensitivity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Sensitivity The skin on my fingers is peeling, stressed by the newness of strings beneath. I misstep, stumbling in misjudgment, too far, a sour sound. The distraction cracks the exercise of muscle memory, fumbling through overthinking I know I said all the wrong things, deafened in the aftermath of mistakes, a ringing of dull notes and your silence. The calluses flake off my fingertips, daring raw flesh to try again. But it hurts.

My inner poet disappeared for a few days. She hasn’t been that quiet for that long in quite some time. She’d like to say hello again and thanks you for listening.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Scouring Introspection

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Scouring Introspection It built up like dirty dishes— starting with a bowl and a spoon at breakfast ending with months of fungus coating every kitchen surface. One ignored doubt—an errant fork— spiraled into a collection of soiled utensils, pretending they didn’t exist, the most annoying part of washing dishes. The smell was the trigger, the bacteria of rotting confidence permeating beyond the kitchen, drawing attention to the neglect, the lack of attention the need to reflect— the introspection that only comes with plunging hands into soapy water and scrubbing.

I’ve been thinking lately, like really thinking and facing my inner self. I’ve been looking at her in the mirror and not just seeing her but talking to her, asking if she’s ok, asking what she wants and what she’s willing to do to get that. I let her speak and I listened, like really listened. She had a lot to say and I know she’s not done talking. So I promised her I’d give her more of my attention. I’m not just going to let her talk; I’m going to let her sing. 

Happy Tuesday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Over There

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Over there The chair begs for a story: a mischievous child sentenced to time-out, a mother resting, taking her shoes off, a lover staring from across the room. The invisible silhouettes haunt its house— the corner of the basement by the painting— a lonely space void of narrative. But maybe that is the story.

Every chair deserves a story. Cheers to Saturdays.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: Tokoni O. Uti

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

17 by guest poet Tokoni O. Uti

About the author:

I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria and developed an interest in literature from an early age. I began writing when I was 10. I attended the International School of the University of Lagos and I’m  currently at Bowen University, Nigeria. I am a Novelist and poet and have  previously written poetry for the Huffington Post, Portsmouth Daily Times, Space Bar magazine, S magazine,Girslife.com, San Diego Free Press, Collective Lifestyle Media, Op-ed News, The Brooklyn Reader and Los Angeles Free Press.

Find more from Tokoni O. Uti on Beautiful Insanity.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Saga of a Heart

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Saga of a Heart

This was one of those poems that poured out without intention or thought. 20 seconds of real life. 

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry, writing

The Last Word

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

 

The last Word A poem can be a line, she said. I couldn’t leave it without justifying, barking thoughts after the fact, a defense mechanism, an expression of my own apprehension to accept simplicity. I worry what they all think, what he thinks, fear manifested in ramblings that say nothing. A poem can be a line.

I’m having an out of body experience at the moment, looking at the last week of my life from across a room. I see it and I think I feel it, but I can’t quite believe it’s mine. 

Celebrate luck with wine, good food, and many many hugs. 

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Speechless

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Speechless My wit atrophies into a freshly erased chalkboard, smeared with dust, remnants of brain activity dragged into a blur. I listen to what you say but cannot speak in return. I taste the chalk of words caked in my closed mouth, too dry to write them with sound. By the time I find a pen to transcribe my silence, you’ve left. I hit repeat on the same song 9 times while working on this post last night. Every play hit me harder than the last, a compounding obsession culminated in the fact that I’m talking about it right now. Maybe it means something and maybe it doesn’t. All I know is that today is Friday.

Sometimes I talk about the days of the week because I don’t know what else to say but most of the time I talk about the days of the week because their existence seems just as important as anything else. Wow, it’s Friday. Find a song you love and listen to it 9 times in a row.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry, writing

Sprint

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Sprint They gave me a clipboard and a shot of authority, power chased with adrenaline, to prove to ride. People asked me questions, these followers that consumed my words like salty snacks. Handshakes locked congratulations into the day that disappeared, the nibbles of a midmorning munched into crumbs of memories by the afternoon, a déjà vu of fleeting confidence. Maybe someone will remember my face despite the finish line.

This wasn’t the poem I set out to write last night, but it didn’t matter. It’s always ok to let flow take liberties and even though my intention wasn’t quite satisfied, I accepted that my initial concept was a title for another day.

Break your own rules. Happy Monday. 

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poem, poetry, writing

Steeped Too Long

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Steeped Too Long I let him bathe in my brain until his tea leaves turned bitter, an after taste like ash wrinkling my face into a raisin. The boy that had infused my blood with caffeine, awakening desire in flavors erected through heat now revolted my palate, a reversal of obsession ended in one final sip. I don’t want this anymore.

Have a great weekend, friends. Listen to your hearts and when all else fails, write about it.

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Intertwined

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Intertwined Cobblestones connected in definite pattern like the traditions of a family— making pancakes every Sunday morning. Buckled seams and cracked impressions shout from the street— the tensions of being too close to the people that you love. Without the foundation of bricks supporting Main Street’s travelers the town would crumble. The road’s imperfections, though rocky, holds the community together. The sarcasm of a father, the impatience of a mother, or the tantrums of a child cannot break the cement that binds them. Did you notice that my name isn’t the only signature on this poem? I’m proud to share ownership of this piece with my mom. It was a collaboration not without frustration. We’re different writers. I like sentences. She likes stand alone images. I like verbs. She likes describing words. But somehow it worked and in the end I think we both learned something. Thanks mom, for sharing your wisdom and treating us all to your poetic beauty.

Smile, it’s Tuesday.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Way Those Jeans

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Way Those Jeans They buttoned, a victory of at least getting into their confines, even though I had to jump and wiggle to manipulate the dimensions, even though I reinvented their intended silhouette, even though I challenged the fabric to stretch beyond its comfort zone, even though the mannequin wore them higher across the middle, and even though I refused to leave the safety of the dressing room, I loved the way those jeans fit. Find the confidence in yourself to feel sexy. The struggle is real in all of us. Tell someone you love that they’re beautiful today.

Have a merry Sunday, friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Pause

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Pause I expected I’d hear silence, as if the meditation of a moment would quiet the Muzak of being people. I listened to the space between breaths and heard the clutter of coffee shop conversation, the footsteps of that boy in the backwards cap when he walked by, the scooting of a chair. I heard my thoughts, a raucous of angst amassed in pictures and imagined flashbacks, a confused slide show of my participation in this room dotted with strangers. I listened for a second and heard the screams of my closed mouth. I don’t often distinguish between my poems that are based on real experience or straight up fiction. However, I feel compelled to admit that this one is utterly non-fiction. I treated myself to a tea at this great coffee shop that’s quickly becoming my go-to place for a cup-o-joe, and the next thing I knew I’d written this poem.

Cheers to Picasso’s in good ol’ St. Charles and cheers to Wednesdays.

–Leanne Rebecca

 

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

From Generation

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

From Generation What would his mother say, him leaving the table without excusing himself as if we didn’t exist, as if we hadn’t driven here together as if he’d rather be watching TV than exchanging words with people he once said he loves? His back staggered our conversation like a child screaming in obstinance to social responsibility, deafening fits interrupting the ease of good company like spilled coffee on white pants, regretable combinations. She wouldn’t say a thing.Sunday morning coffee is one of my favorite things. It’s the poetry of a survived Saturday night. It’s the pause of appreciation for the privilege of indulgence. Most of all, it’s just delicious. I hope you were enjoying a cup of coffee while reading this. After all, poetry and coffee are bred to coexist. Cheers to the week ahead!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Visibility

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Visibility Someone must have seen me sitting there, spitting cherry seeds into a plastic baggie, shoes off, cross legged, and glistening in the thickness of St. Louis humidity. I laid down on the quilt protecting my clothes from grass stains and pulled a book from my purse. I estimated I could read about a chapter before the next band started their set. I tuned out the cacophony of intoxicated friends, the thousands of couples and families and besties camped out on the lawn of the amphitheater. I muted their chatter as if dialing down the volume in my car, driving my attention anywhere I wanted, sneaking peaks at the sky over the rim of my book, not caring how many people didn’t see me lying there, alone at a concert at peace with my own ego, so nonchalant in my solitude, that the issue of visibility floated away with every lyric and every movement and every heartbeat of freedom screamed from the silence of no one beside me.