Posted in love, poetry

Ghost Hunting

Ghost Hunting  He appeared in front of me like an apparition.  I blinked for weeks, expecting the lights to stop playing tricks on my eyes, but the evidence of his existence only solidified as this spirit before me exposed its form, no longer desire’s ghost, but a corporeal truth affirmed by touch, my ear to his chest, his beat, by the pain in my cheeks, laughing from joke to joke, and by the promise  that we could see the other, that it was real.   —Leanne Rebecca

She’s in Prison has been my baby for 2 1/2 years, and possibly the most crucial 2 1/2 years in terms of growing up. I can look back through the archives and relive all the phases of my early 20’s. Now I enter a new phase of discovering who I am while sharing all of me with another person.

If you’ve noticed my absence on here the past couple months it’s because I’ve been doing just that: dedicating every spare moment I have to falling helplessly in love.

I hope you had a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

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Posted in desire, love, poetry

If We’d Never Met

If We’d Never Met  I thought about you this week, flashback tripped by a song you told me to listen to months ago.  I wonder if I purged these memories, cleansed of you and your ghost, would I lose the strength built in their wake.  Could I trade this newfound backbone for a life without the ache buried  in the rings of my frame, forgetting the moment my heart sped, falling faster than the warning of the break?  Would I give up discovering the complexity of love, a depth unlocked as my desire awakened hearing my voice for the first time, vulnerable, flawed, scared, alive in exchange for freedom?  —Leanne Rebecca

I looked at the clock around 9:45 tonight and thought, man, I’m going to get to bed early, finally get a decent amount of sleep to kickstart my Monday without watering eyes and sluggish limbs. But then the itch began, the compulsion tingling behind my forehead, radiating to my fingertips, the cusp of a poem aching to spill out. So here we are, an hour later, an hour of sleep lost to creative whims.

Good night, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry, writing

Integrity

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