Posted in art, poetry, writing

Too Much

Too Much  They call it Pain Tolerance, measured in a threshold determined by the wearer, a number of fingers you can withstand before two hands shortfall the scale,  a 10 spectrum limit that fails to consider all the categories of this feeling’s complexity.  Am I at a 9 because I’m still breathing?  There’s a numbness beyond comprehension that confuses the brink of my endurance, as if the ache resides in negative space. an inverted sensation, the vast white surrounding the ink blotches  that could explain this intoxication. I changed the last word of this poem at least 6 times, and with each revision, I found new meaning inside my own lines. I implore you to take away your own interpretation. Sure, I wrote the poem, but the meaning is not absolute. What it means to you is just as significant as the reason I wrote it. I write poetry for me, but you read it for you. We’re equals in this process.

Happy Monday!!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

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Posted in art, poetry, writing

Regarded

Regarded

I never thought I’d be the type of poet that wrote about a strand of hair, about the seemingly unimportant details of a day, but something about that moment struck me. In its banality, it was beautiful and carried so much more meaning than I could have ever expected. How many interactions do we brush aside without pause. Maybe it’s dumb, but I seriously discovered some things about myself in examining my hair strand. What can you discover about yourself if you only take the opportunity to consider it?