Tag: art

Posted in heart, poetry, trust

Get There

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Get There I held on to where I was going like a baby clutching a necklace, grasping at what dangled in my face, fixated, as if my peripheral vision fogged. I only saw that one thing I wanted, that one person, that one boy, and no matter how much people yelled to let go, my heart clung, comforted by an autopilot grip. I didn’t understand why anyone would peel my fingers away from that one thing I wanted, until it was gone, my empty hands opened, understanding at last the only way to get there, was to walk away from it all. —Leanne Rebecca

It’s been a hot minute since I wrote a poem. Lots of life has happened in the past couple weeks and I’ve barely been able to catch my breath. I’ve had to let many ideas die in the wind, barely able to find the time to eat dinner, let alone write anything. I wish time could pause sometimes.

Side note: everything right now is inspired by Paramore.

Good night!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in dreams, poetry

The Drive Home

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Drive Home Windows down in the summertime and my hair is raping my face, stuck to my tinted Chapstick, catching streaks of light as it rages in freedom’s right. Old school Greenday comes on the radio. I listen to the guitar chords, the strumming, ascertaining whether or not I can play it. Am I good enough? I think about how the volume is so loud I’d never be able to hold a conversation in the car, realize maybe I don’t want to, that I like this, just me, my blushed cheeks and dreams of becoming a rock star. —Leanne Rebecca

Soak up the sunshine. My only advice for the moment.

Love,

Leanne

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 dream, poetry

Cover of Dusk

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Cover of Dusk I imagined their story as I walked by their house: a couple in their early thirties one year old daughter asleep in her room the dinner party winding down inside glasses of chardonnay clinking pearl necklaces and red lipstick smudges how they’d all been friends since college. I slowed my pace as the haze of their perfection tightened in my throat, prey to the outsider’s perception: a brick walkway leading to their front door trimmed rose bushes silhouettes mingling in light cast shadows through their windows. A mosquito bit my arm, the signal to lengthen my stride, move past fantasies of someone else’s family, stop obsessing over picket white fences, the bad date I went on the night before, that it would be years, before finding that dream for myself. I walked on, cheeks soaking up the sweat and tears beading on my skin in the humidity, thankful at least for the setting sun, the cover of dusk to mask this headspace so no one would have to know that seeing their daughter’s swing hanging on a tree in their front yard made me cry.

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 death, life, poetry

Never Again

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Never Again I do what I can to avoid that place, that head space when I needed an end to escape friendlessness, the torment not being able to feel my own breathing, a carcass driving aimless going nowhere, those days alone listening to song after song, wishing home felt like home, wishing my voice could rise, that invisible me could be seen. Those days may have died as I learned to dispose of emotion, crying out the suicide, leaving the drops of intention to dry in a trail behind. But the scar still haunts, still taunts at this heart, whispers no one else can hear or know to understand, to allow my hand to hold a little tighter, to feel their pulse against mine, to help me feel alive. I do what I can to avoid that place, incessant texts, aggressive pursuit of connection, random sex and make out sessions, singing as loud as scabbed lungs will allow, forcing your fingers in mine and pulling you close, begging you to stay so that I’m not alone, afraid, betrayed by the yesterdays when the threat of death was the only time I felt relevant. —Leanne Rebecca

Tonight I’m obsessed with the song “Scene Four – Don’t You Ever Forget About Me” by Sleeping with Sirens. I’m pretty sure my roommate hates me because I just played it about 7 times in a row:

Don’t you ever forget about me
When you toss and turn in your sleep
I hope it’s because you can’t stop thinking about
The reasons why you close your eyes
I haunt your dreams at night
So you can’t stop thinking about me
Don’t stop thinking about me

Do you really think you could see this through
Put on a smile and wear it for someone new
Don’t you do it
‘Cause I know I’m not the easiest one to love
But every ounce I have
I invest in you
But no one said love’s not for taking chances

Hitting home.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in beauty, poetry, truth

Empowerment

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 destiny, poetry, writing

Reclaimed

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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, writing

Solace

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Solace There’s a divide in the memories, skating the line of nostalgia and regret, submerged both in deep admiration for the moments worth holding and drowning at the same time, gasping for resolution, for forgiveness, finding solace only in knowing that tomorrow’s memories are whole, yet to be broken by mistakes or the complexities of emotion.

Today is a brand new day, a day to let go, a day to take hold, a day to live in the moment. We are all shaped by our histories. They are written in the scars in our skin and the rhythms of our hearts, but those marks of yesterdays do not dictate who we will be today. Let what once was live in memory. Laugh at the good ones and learn from the bad ones. Remember, you are always moving forward.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, rhyme, writing

The Not Quite

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Not Quite I only thought about it for one hour a day, in the hours of bedtime tea, my reflection staring back at me while brushing my teeth before the siphoning of light as night’s shadows settled in my eyes. Only in that time did I feel like the not quite, drifting to sleep in the lullabies that haunted the air in my lungs, analyzing too intensely the songs sung in the daylight. Only in that hour did I give permission to disclose this expression, my secret anxieties to flood my sheets as pinot noir pinked my cheeks, a rush of heat in a kiss of honesty. Only then did I question everything, the not quite searching for a reason, deciphering the origins of these lesions, falling into dreams gripped by a heart stripped to its vulnerability.

Uncharacteristic rhyme tonight. There’s something about this poem that I really love. I almost didn’t write one, just thought maybe I’d let the TV drown out thinking until falling asleep, but I couldn’t just ignore my inner poet fighting to come out. She didn’t want to be ignored and I’m so glad I listened.

Good night!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Those Eyes

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Those Eyes The eyes in the picture smoldered in more dimensions than the photograph’s possibility, beckoning like portals to another story that danced on the other side of the visible world. She didn’t grant many people the opportunity to jump through her mysteries preferring to keep her oceans obscure, offering only flash glances, enticing them to want to know what lived beyond, to understand why she chose to not put mascara on her bottom lashes that day.

Today is my 2 year anniversary of this ol’ blog. It’s strange to go back and look and some of the old posts and remember where I was emotionally when I wrote those poems. Sometimes I’m in awe that I even wrote them. Actually, I was going through a tough time when I started She’s in Prison. My struggle was the catalyst of finding an outlet. I fear looking into that past and remembering that dark place. But, I guess that dark place inspired something pretty great. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished on here and I thank all of you so much for sticking with me through it all.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, love, poetry, writing

Pursuit

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Pursuit I would have killed myself long ago if I hadn’t found this purpose to feel, admitting the air coming in, even though it burned like salt on a cracked lip. The sting on my flesh faded, but the memory of sensation remained. I never want to forget what it feels like to feel because numbness freezes the lungs useless. The pursuit of you inundated my airway with water, rendering breathing that much harder, but at least my chest was moving, at least I felt like part of the living.

It’s strange what can inspire a poem. For me it could be a song or an emotion or a chair sitting in the corner of a room. Today it was the word pursuit. I saw it in a poem I was reading and something sparked inside me. I knew that word had a poem of its own that I needed to get out. So I typed it at the top of my Word doc and without knowing what would flow, I began to type.

I don’t say it enough, but I really do love you guys. Thanks always for reading my unfiltered verse.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

About This I Am Right

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

About This I am Right I knead my thumb into my palm, pausing at each callus, the evidence of effort, the roughness of imperfections, of making a fool of myself in trying. My hands aren’t soft, they bleed in the cold air, they sting against my tears, they tire, they fail and the holding on hurts more. My hands aren’t soft, and the calluses scrape, but if you let me let go, I promise you’re making a mistake. Of this I am right.

There are some poems that hurt to write. I read through them and exhale. This one hurt, but I remember they’re just words and I’m stronger than their verse.

–Leanne Rebecca