Tag: crying

Posted in love, poetry

Dry

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Dry I was so used to feeling soggy, soaking wet underneath cascades of gray, shoes weighing my feet, filled with the water collected from my head to my toes that I couldn’t fathom another existence. It rained everyday until it didn’t. —Leanne Rebecca

The sun will come out tomorrow, and when it does, I hope it brings a smile to your face.

–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 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 poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Song

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Song No one knows about this: Two houses ago, back when I lived with my parents, I’d shut myself into my room, severing presence with headphones as I lost myself in the same song over and over and over, drowning as the lyrics cried with me— “Are you searching for purpose? Then write something, yeah it might be worthless Then paint something then, it might be wordless Pointless curses, nonsense verses” —I was trapped in that God damn song, lost in blurred vision, gasping for anything I could scribble to dig roots beyond those moments, pleading with existentialism, so afraid to let anyone hear me, and praying that someone would. I begged for understanding, crippled into the crux of my pillow, forever listening, forever waiting— “Leave me alone. Don't leave me alone.”

Kitchen Sink — Twenty One Pilots.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry, writing

Integrity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

She succumbed to influence, forgetting to trust her heart, realizing she’d never trusted her heart, not with as much zeal as it deserved. She let them tell her how her heart should beat, how many clicks in a minute it should feel, which minutes deserved her soul and which she needed to let go. They told her when her heart was wrong and when her heart was weak and she believed them and tried to reshape its lines. One day, after all the breaks her veins twisted in knots, confused, she realized she’d lost her beat, breathing someone else’s thinking. In that moment, she was free to fall, but with integrity, to fall poetically, trusting she’d fly.

I’m no stranger to crying. I cry during ASPCA commercials. I cried at the end of the newest Cinderella movie. I cry when they name the winner of The Voice. Rarely, however, does poetry make me cry. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.

I usually write poetry as a response to crying whereas few poems have truly moved me to tears. Today as I was sitting at my desk, listening to Pandora like any other Monday at the office, Tom Petty’s song Free Fallin came on and I needed to write this poem, didn’t have a choice.

I reread what I wrote, and suddenly, my throat started tightening. Something about this poem makes me cry, even as I look at it now. I guess it’s because this poem is my heart.

–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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

To Have You

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Have You I swallow nostalgia with the mucus building up in the back of my throat, a ball of what once was scratching as if I’d tried to take a pill without water. Behind every blink I see flashes of friendship, come and gone, the days when I never feared lonely afternoons, when tomorrow was a hopeful word, when I didn’t want to run from today and expunge yesterdays with a worn out pencil eraser, a smeared memory not quite deleted. Those were the days of club dancing, sleeping until noon, pajama parties and vodka, when none of us really cared that we didn’t have boyfriends because we had each other. I swallow the nostalgia, the distance of our cities stuck at the back of my throat, a lump growing like a tumor as we get older and farther away from the days of not caring that we don’t have boyfriends.

Today is one of the rare afternoons on a weekday that I have nothing to do. It’s in those times that I tend to think too much, thinking about every aspect of my life, and not in a healthy way. I have a habit of looking too closely at the minutes of a day, wondering too much about why I’m doing what I’m doing and making a list of all the things that are missing. I envy the people that live so carefree, loving the moment and embracing alone time with love. I wonder if they’re acting.

I hope you catch some sunshine today!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

I’m Not

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

I’m Not I believe in pretending for the sake of functioning, the persona of silence— what people see when they look at me. In the superficial light of artifice I believe in the beauty of my body, the posture of fitted sweaters and long necklaces draped across my collar bone in nonchalance, of tight pants and knee-high boots— the attitude of asking for jealousy. I believe in daytime smokey eyes because it means I can’t let myself cry. There’s strength in my beliefs when make-believe becomes truth. But not today. Today I lied and they all believed me.

Another week has come and gone. Today is the only day that matters. What will you make of it?

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Grocery Store

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Grocery Store I lived alone for three months in a new city, didn’t know a soul. Every day I’d walk a mile to the grocery store, spend twenty minutes deciding which vegan cookie to buy and walk back. Sometimes it was Starbucks or the farmer’s market in Studio City. Or drive to Santa Monica to buy my cookie at a bakery and drive back to what I called home. Once it was a restaurant and I walked three miles in the smog to get there. I never cried in those three months. It’s only now, years later, when I go to the grocery store alone that the sadness shows. Maybe it’s the guilt of all those cookies piled up on my thighs, the leftovers of a time not quite forgotten or maybe it’s that I didn’t expect the loneliness to last.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Emotional Creature

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Emotional Creature There's nothing wrong with me. I'm swallowed by feeling, the realness of feeling, feelings not wrong, just deep, deeper than yours, extreme manifested in shakes, holding my stomach. There's nothing wrong with me. I stand in front of the toilet weigh the pain, it hurts no matter what, hurts more than you could know. I'll never say, just hold my stomach in silence. There's nothing wrong with me. I curl my knees in, shoulder crammed to the floor pools beneath my face drowning in feeling. I feel. I live. I feel. There's nothing wrong with me.

I’m currently obsessed with “Out of the Woods”on Taylor Swift’s new album and that is the most important news I have to share. Sing with me.

Have a splendid Wednesday, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Under the Influence

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Under the Influence I wept her poems from my eyes ink mixing with freckles wandering the hollows of emotion sewn in the simplicity of her voice. I read them again cross legged as still as silence steeping tea turned bitter. Nothing made sense anymore the eruption of water the knots in my shoulders the unmoving air the last page of a masterpiece, finished, the anticipation of change the waking up the next morning in the same position I fell asleep.

This poem came out of nowhere. I was taking a walk, imagining stories in my head, and it just hit me in the face.

One of my friends lent me Ararat by Louise Gluck last week and I think it changed my life. Everything looks the same from the outside–same job, same breakfast foods–but something’s different, even if I can’t articulate exactly what that means.

I don’t usually publish poems at night. Sweet dreams and thanks for reading.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Almost

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Almost The day before Thanksgiving— department store shopping— orange and red and green and gold— trees of candy gift sets— sales associates handing out perfume samples— a scream— the grating of the escalator— an 8 year old boy laying across the handrail, clinging— two women prying his body from over the edge— the pause of breathing— the kid enveloped in arms— my mother’s tears as she stood.

Today is the day that Facebook feeds are cluttered with lists. We pick out five or six things we’re thankful for like family, friends, food, faith, etc. I’m not going to do that here. While I am thankful for my parents and my cat and my guitar and my favorite restaurant, today I want to reflect on something a little different.

Lately I’ve been working on loving myself and loving my own company, finding happiness in times of solitude. I went through a period where I lost my admiration for myself and so today, on Thanksgiving, I am thankful for me. I’m thankful for my strength to fight. I’m thankful for my individuality and my love for writing. I’m thankful that I know exactly who I am and I’m thankful that I love her. I am thankful that I am alive.

I pray that you never lose sight of yourself.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Mood

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Mood I told her how I’d wanted to write, could feel the excess of emotion on the cusp of brimming over the side of my too full ink jar. I knew that if I tried to cap it that black would leak out and stain my table with unfiltered tears, a mess of thoughts spilled without coherency. I knew that bottling doesn’t work, that if I don’t direct my fears and bruises into lines then my ink jar will shatter, exploding debris all over my face. But I don’t feel like writing, I told her, I don’t want to face those energies. She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in, That’s your poem, she caressed, that the exasperation of a day stole the words right out of you.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Under the Radar

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Under the Radar I felt the warning signs welling up like the early symptoms of a head cold— easily ignored. I swallowed the thoughts with each sip of vodka soda which dwindled as the toasts wrapped. To the Bride and Groom. They cut the cake and had a dance and everyone smiled and some cried as I kept quiet, afraid to speak and erupt with cynicism on this happy occasion, finding respite in the bathroom stall until sickness poured from my eyes, my sickness—my eternal loneliness soiling the love infested air of a wedding celebration. I ducked outside so no one would see the despair blur my eyeliner like a watercolor painting. I watched the guests raise glasses through the window, kicking off their shoes, shamelessly indulging in the contagion of glee, the pairs of them, hand in hand with their own brides and grooms of yesterdays and tomorrows while I wept in the darkness of a night’s sky. They hadn’t seen me leave, who would? I wasn’t tied to that innate buddy system of plus ones, relegated unintentionally invisible, forgotten amidst kisses and slow dances, biding my time until the glowing couple skipped into their getaway car and I shuffled back to mine, tired. Thanks for sticking with me. Life’s a journey and sometimes it gets busy, which is why I feel utterly lucky to have this magical thing called writing that lets me dance my way through it without rules. Have a fantastic Monday!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Glimpse

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Glimpse Sometimes I forget that the sounds are audible because I can’t hear myself. The music’s too loud in my earbuds. I wonder if the headlights coming towards me reflect the glass coating my eyes, even though it’s dark. Would that man walking on the other side of the street notice If I collapsed? My hands shake with the violence of my breath, unable to find pause in the measure of worth. Can you hear me choking on silence, coughing with the helplessness of an asthmatic? Do you care?

This weekend was rough. As such, I’ve decided to take a little She’s in Prison vacation, just for a week. Isn’t there a saying of some kind about having too much of a good thing anyway…?

Have a great week and check back in 7 days for fresh schtuff. 🙂