Posted in art, honesty, poetry

Fade

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

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Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

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, poetry, writing

Storm

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

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

Back

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