Tag: anxiety

Posted in fear, poetry, writing

Primal Fear

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Primal Fear More likely he was enjoying the weather, or stargazing or waiting for a friend to pick him up or contemplating crickets than anticipating a young woman getting out of her car at night, lingering on the corner between where she parked her car and her apartment, watching as her grip fastened tighter to her purse, sensing her heart freeze in the distrust of a man standing as still as a lion tracking an antelope before the kill. Get inside Get inside Get inside, she chanted in hushed urgency, succumbed to instinct's anxiety, peripheral vision locked on his posture, eyes pinned to the doorknob, imagination planning the scream that would come next. He made no move to harm her. Yet her pulse fired as she crossed the threshold into safety, assuming a lurking lion is always hungry. —Leanne Rebecca

It’s amazing how quickly adrenaline can zap your heartbeat and tense your stomach when instinctual fear kicks in. A single moment of anxiety can linger for hours as the body struggles to let go of that jolt of intensity. I will most likely never know what that man was doing, standing on the corner outside of my apartment building, and I will never be able to explain why I felt such innate distrust, but I am certain of one thing: his presence had a lasting impression on me. Hours later, I’m still afraid to turn off my light and slip into the impending, terror infused dreams awaiting my psyche.

Sleep well, 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, 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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

A Hug

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Hug I microwaved a mug of tea and cuddled with it on the couch, pulling my knees up, hugging their substance like I would a pillow or a lover. I needed to feel the proximity of tangibility, something to hold to funnel irrationalities into a moment of quiet— holding a mug of hot tea, holding the pieces of me together one knee at a time.

Sometimes all you need is a hug.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, image, poetry, writing

Naked

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Naked I stumble to the full length mirror on the closet, squinting through the sleep still in my eyes not yet adjusted to the artificial light, abrasive and unforgiving. I lift my shirt to assess yesterday’s damages, exposing the angles of manipulation to the judgment looking back, sucking it in from all sides, strategizing an outfit to minimize the lumps, a necklace to draw the eyes up, applying concealer to the body like I would a blemish, bathed in the makeup of a wardrobe.

I’d be hypocritical if I told you not to look critically at yourself. After all, I write poems that explore the complexities of who I am–the good, the bad, the perplexing, the mundane, and the ridiculous. I write to understand why sometimes I struggle with certain emotions and other times I can brush them off. I write to know more about myself, looking critically at the dark corners of my brain. I dive deep, drawing out secrets that hurt or burdens that tug down at my shoulders. I find this kind of analysis scary, but cathartic.

I know who I am and refuse to change. I’m stubborn like that.

All this being said, I also caution this critique of yourself, especially when it crosses into physical appearance. It’s always good to strive for something. It is never good to torture yourself in the process. I promise, you’re more beautiful than you know.

Tell me which aspects of yourself that you are head over heels in love with. I absolutely adore my sarcasm. I smile at my gift for all things random. I love that I can totally rock bedhead.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poem, poetry, writing

Jawbreaker

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Jawbreaker I caught my mistakes in my throat, choked on the acidity of sour reality staining my tongue. My lips tinged purple as if I’d eaten a grape Popsicle the blue of not breathing, suffocating as time and energy blocked my airway as if a Jawbreaker had lodged there and I couldn’t cough it up. My neck cramped and I waited for the sugar to dissolve, the lump to melt as I tasted all the flavors of my choices. I swallow now with freedom as intoxicating as spring air, but the scar’s still there, a scratch caught in my throat, the mistakes etched in the memory of my breath.

I sat here in front of my computer for a solid ten minutes, staring at the screen, trying to think of something to write here. Maybe it’s more profound that I couldn’t think of a single thing.

Have a splendid Wednesday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Should

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Should The TV signal died. I spend the next twenty minutes pressing a button off and on to spark a response. Off and on because there should be stimulus. I should do what I can to expel the silence of a blue screen and error message because I can’t be here in the quiet should be moving in some direction mind should be engaged in something, can’t waste this time on doing nothing. I press the button off and on, squatting in front of a box, expecting a different result and the damn receiver won’t listen to me. I’m here, trying, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I should try again.

Last week was rough. Here’s a hint…don’t catch stomach bugs. Luckily, I like to think of Sundays as the day to start anew. I survived Hell and now is my opportunity to bounce back. Good thing the TV lost its signal, because now I can say I started the new week with a poem.

There’s still time to accomplish something wonderful before Monday rolls around, folks. It’s up to you to figure out what it’s going to be.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Anything

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Anything Driving in a car and it's raining. I touch all the buttons on the radio anything but talking only commercials, radio shows, white noise of Saturday mornings when you didn't quite force the body to sleep long enough. We're going to walk the mall, anything to leave the house and stir the blood, to move the mind out of the place where thinking's bad too much, too fast that it sounds like static.

I’ve eaten nothing but cookies for the past five days. That’s what happens when you make them on Christmas Eve and double the recipe because your mom told you to and end up with a full box of leftovers because you made too many cookies. I think I’ll go for a run today.

I wanted to post this poem yesterday. I’d set my intention the night before: I will write a poem on Saturday morning. But somehow I slept in and before I knew it I was out of the house, starting my day, and I’d forgotten about poetry completely. It’s a rare occurrence–me forgetting about poetry–but I’d like to think there’s some meaning behind it.

Happy Sunday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Freak

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Freak You don’t know about the paranoia nestled in my fingernails. I pick at my cuticles to get at it, peeling through to the blood vessels beneath. I haven’t heard from you in three days and the skin around my nails looks like an active volcano, lava crusting against cracked rock. I fear that you forgot me. I clench my fists in desperation, to quiet the obsession, the need to be needed. I concede to speak against your silence. My hands cramp in the waiting. I succumb to insecurity— the translucence of my ghost white complexion, that you don’t see enough of me to remember my presence. I rip at flesh with my teeth, the taste of blood staining my tongue. I measure my worth in your wants, a bad habit.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tragedy

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tragedy Morning traffic dictated a lethargic pace. I tailgated the car in front of me as if burning grill marks on his bumper would increase the speed of moving, could decrease my anxiety— would I make it to work on time? I veered onto the exit ramp at the first opportunity, crossing a bit of the solid white, zipping around the line stopped on the highway, the other 9-5ers blinking at their windshields, sleepwalkers guzzling coffee and eating granola bars. The ramp was clear, a straight shot of open road to fly without impasse in the freedom of ignoring speed suggestions. I noticed something to my right before I hit the intersection: a dead deer, frozen and whole like a stuffed replica. I looked away to my left. Three black trash bags lined the shoulder.Sometimes routine can blind us from what’s happening around us, good or bad. Don’t forget to open your eyes. Write a poem about it if you can.

Happy Thursday!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Static

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Static If we moved millimeters we’d touch, strangers on planes forced in proximities reserved for intimacy. I keep my arms crossed, compacted in self-inflicted binding, hands to myself like they taught us in preschool. I shift a little, stimulating blood flow to my tingling feet, but in the move our skins meet, that man’s and mine. I perceive of his flinch, the jerk away masked in the stealth of reaching for his drink, his repulsion of contact, one second that makes me question why I fear physicality.

Happy Friday!

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Promises

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Promises

Every Saturday I eat lunch at the same place. The entire staff knows my name and my regular order. I can’t tell you how many poems I’ve posted on here have been scribbled while eating a Frida burger with headphones in my ear, downing cup after cup of their delicious fruit infused water. I feel inclined to say this one’s no exception, except it is. I didn’t even eat the day I wrote this. I opted for a smoothie. I don’t know what that means or why I felt I needed to share my dietary habits, but maybe there’s a significance to it.

Regardless, this poem is inspired by Love is a Story’s cover of “Hide and Seek” originally by Imogen Heap. I must have listened to it 10 times on repeat in the course of writing this poem and in those minutes of absolute focus, I wasn’t in Fridas Deli anymore. I was skipping through daydreams. That’s why I love writing: there aren’t any rules.

Have a great Sunday and come back next week for more musically inspired poetry!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Comfort

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Comfort

This poem is a riddle. A friend gave me the prompt of closing my eyes and writing a poem based on the first item in my house that popped into my head and then she’d guess what the item is. I fear it may be too easy, but please, go ahead and take a guess in the comments!!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Cacophony

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CacophonyS/O to Charlie Unger.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Little Things

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Little Things