Tag: darkness

Posted in art, honesty, poetry

Fade

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Fade Forgotten at 80 miles an hour, headlight after headlight found and lost again, boxes kicking up dirt from the road, moving the dust of passing time, the remnants of traction shifted in changing flight, machines, the people inside faceless to the night. I’m invisible as I drive and know the tail lights ahead can’t see me cry or wonder why my hand rips at my hair as I choke on lyrics, words caught like flies in my windpipe, bowing to the mercy of whatever needs to be screamed and silenced before I reach home. Would he notice if I faded into the shadows between the street lamps, pulled the car to the side of the road and abandoned this enterprise? Or has he forgotten my face, my name as I speed along the highway in my box, collecting dead bugs, nameless to sight.

This poem didn’t capture everything that I needed to say tonight. I’m not sure what it is that I need to say right now or really what emotion I’m currently feeling. Everything tonight is nameless and blurry, and that’s how I feel about this poem. It works because it’s messy and introspective and unclear and honest, but it’s still missing something. It’s missing heart.

Good night my friends,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tricked The room dimmed with the sunset, the space that hours before had been filled with conversation— friends drinking champagne, investing fractions of their lives in sharing time— now faded into shadow, the imprint of connection dying as we drifted back to segregation, alone in introspection’s isolation as if the party had never happened, as if he’d never talked to me, as if they’d never met, as if our imaginations tricked us into believing loneliness isn’t a chronic disease. —Leanne Rebecca

There’s something about the close of the weekend that requires epic introspection. Now is the time, when everyone is winding down and setting their Monday morning alarm clocks, to take a few moments and reflect on what’s running most prominently through your brain.

Sometimes I struggle with these hours of solitude, feeling lost in their isolation, afraid of the silence. Other times I welcome the freedom. Tonight I feel both with equal weight.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, love, my life, poetry

Insanity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Insanity She imploded into the cavern inside her chest, fizzled from the outside in like a fading ember until he couldn’t see her anymore. She wondered if he’d ever seen her. She stayed trapped inside the hole, buried as deep as the years it took to dig, knowing only one hand could pull her out, a hand she knew would never come. From the darkness she yelled his name, pleading with his fear to reach into her heart and relinquish vulnerability, but he couldn’t hear her, had never heard her. Still she begged, chastised by the echo bouncing off his silence. She wondered how many ways she could write about the same emotion before she exploded.

My dad asked me a couple days ago if I knew what the definition of insanity was. Yes, I said, it’s trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So he asked me why I keep trying.

Some things are worth going crazy over.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Storm

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Storm I remember the fear I used to feel when the sky would turn green, huddling under a blanket as hail rained, my parents watching the local news as nighttime ravaged the afternoon sun. It’s the same fear I feel now, exposed to a vastness outside my window, that even though my parents love me, the Midwestern storm still has the upper hand. I concede vulnerability to the elements— the ferocity of darkness, the wind raping my cheeks, eyes spilling gallons of anxiety, waking in ruble with splinters in my feet, crippled in unending fear. I’m not hiding under a blanket anymore. I’m standing in the rain accepting the challenge, knowing the torrent will pass, and the sky will illuminate again tomorrow. I am still afraid, but I face east with alacrity.

I’m often asked where I find my inspiration. Most of the time it’s random, like the color of my hot tea or hearing a song playing at the grocery store, but sometimes I seek out inspiration too. On Thursday I asked a handful of my friends what their favorite word was that day. I didn’t explain why I was asking, which netted me some pretty interesting responses, like burrito or sandwich. One of my friends even made up a word.

There were a few answers however that stuck out: storm, alacrity, and illuminate. The strength behind these words is consuming and even more intriguing are the reasons that my friends chose these. I initially intended to write a separate poem for each word, but then I realized how interconnected they could be, which again, is a pretty powerful discovery.

This poem is dedicated to my friends Kelsey, Charlie, and Cameron.

What is your favorite word today?

–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

Time and Space

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Time and Space He grabbed my hand as we walked through the restaurant to our table. He’d never touched me like that, so declarative so suggestive of intention, as if expressing ownership. I liked knowing he’d made room in his ego for my occupancy, reading into the gesture all the way to my seat, writing futures in fantasy, imagining what would happen if he never let go. But the images crumbled jarred into nothing as I blinked away the 3 am dream, woken by the buzzing of my space heater and an empty hand, eyes refusing to adjust to the night in the absence of stars, the alignment that skipped over my heart.

Posted in art, poetry

Back

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Back I whispered it when you turned your back, back to the party. I watched you throw back that shot and clench your teeth, head spinning, backwards stepping into the coffee table. I lean back into the wall, arms hugged to my solitude, holding what you didn’t hear against my stomach. You’re across the room now, back with the ones I’ll never be. Her smile. It’s too late to go back in time, for you to hear what I said, the words dispersed into fog, droplets of sentiment clouded by reticence, the rain that wouldn’t drop, stubborn background mist to wade between. I promise I said it. I’m sorry. Please come back to me.

Well, I’m back. For the first time since starting She’s in Prison I feel the need to say I’m sorry to all of you. I appreciate your support and I fear I let you down with my disappearance.

Life’s been a struggle. I recently started a new job and have been transitioning into that role. Also my grandma died a little over a week ago.

I’ve felt overwhelmed and honestly, I haven’t felt like writing. I’ve stared at the same blank page for two weeks. I couldn’t move my hand. Just stared.

But here I am. I’m trying and I thank you for listening.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry

Making Sense of It.

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Making Sense of It. A sheet divides the ramblings of my desires and the secrets beneath his ribs. I see the shadows of his hungers through the fabric, obscured intentions taunting when the light hits. Neither of us speak, playing the game, pursuing, hunting, manipulating. I only know what I feel.

This one may not be about what you think it is. Just consider it.

Have a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

That Thing Called Trust

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

That Thing Called Trust I opened my heart to it, relinquishing power into your volition, touching my palm to yours and memorizing the comfort of unrestrained connection, allowing the circle around my fear to bend for you. I liked the way it felt, to grant you access to my sealed chest, leaving the door a little ajar, the nightlight always shining just in case you wanted to come in, even in the dark hours, in my dreams, the recesses of my head. I found faith there, faith that I was safe, that as long as I trusted without doubt this taken chance couldn’t hurt. I never expected you’d force me to flicker the light, that you’d be the one to swallow my love like whiskey, with a wince.

It’s a new week and I’m pumped to be back. I’m ready to write and so blessed to have you all here to listen. Thank you for standing by my side on this poetic journey.

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. 🙂

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Exiled

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Exiled He walked next to me, a foot between our bodies, a distance that only grew to divert obstacles in the middle of the sidewalk— trees, trash cans, mail receptacles. He’d point out a café he liked over there and I’d say I’d never been, a suggestion. We chatted about work and food addictions, ebbing in and out of the serious stuff, family and insecurities, teetering the line of divulging too much, choosing to trust in the other, mostly. And then he hugged me and he left, the sight of his back stabbing me, exiling me into invisibility, just a glare from the setting sun, dissolved into nighttime.

This one’s inspired by “Invisible” by Hunter Hayes.

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

To Listen

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Listen I skipped every other song, brushing aside the lyrics scribed in MP3s, at my ear’s whim to dismiss whichever ones I wanted. I was walking outside, so I needed beats, the kind compounded with stimulants, adrenaline, to spark my shoes to rebound off the concrete as if springing from a trampoline— I was trying to get a workout after all. I turned the corner onto my street, readying my hands to pause the music, to wipe my sweat and recede back into my house, subjected to an atmospheric beige, a poetically devoid space, a television two napping parents and a microwave. I reached the door, but I couldn’t go in, stopped, as if someone had grabbed my shoulders and yanked them backwards, pleading with my instincts to yield. I sat down on the porch swing, sinking into the darkness of pause, listening more intently to the words rapped in my headphones, and for a moment, I let the stillness rest, let my sweat dry on its own, and waited until the song reached its end before I went inside.

‘I hear your music and I’m listening. Thank you for sharing a part of your soul in your art.’ That’s what I’d say if I could tell anyone who has ever written a song how much I appreciate their work and their passion.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Concrete

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Concrete

Posted in art, Music, poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Glowing Eyes

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Glowing Eyes

Let’s just ignore the fact that I made myself look like one of those dead girls in scary movies in the pic above…

This poem is inspired by the title of the Twenty One Pilots song “Glowing Eyes” from their Regional at Best album. Check out their version below 🙂

http://youtu.be/47AtclpkF-o