Tag: image

Posted in heart, poetry

A Letter to My Daughter

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Letter to My Daughter One day you will look in the mirror and see only flaws, black smudged underneath your eyes, wisps of frizz curling around your ears, a voice too soft, unheard, a spirit too broken to scream and you will doubt your worth. It is in that moment dear child that you will crave hands to wrap your shoulders in assurance, binding fear with everlasting embrace. It is in that moment that tears will break, that an urge to smash that mirror will radiate from limb to limb and the last pearls of innocence will sever from your soul. Your sobs will soften, blinking devastation into stillness, and you will rise, turn back towards that glass and see yourself, not the flaws smudged across freckled cheeks, but the blush of a heartbeat allowing the ribs to feel, to heal, to ache with the strength of facing tomorrow. I’ll be there for you, dear child, but you’ll be there for yourself too. —Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, writing

Elemental

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Elemental I thought about going to sleep with the eye makeup still on, convinced that choosing to strip off that layer would rob me of self expression, vanquish the artistic beauty screaming from this morning’s play when no one was around as I spent an hour reworking pigments, trying again and again until obsession and satisfaction married and I fell in love with what I’d created. There’s no denial of vanity, living in reflection, caring what the eyes see blinking behind masks, disposable self-mutilation inflicted again and again with intention, to impress, to cry out these feelings inside that need to escape, to beg to be seen in the irony of hiding. It wasn’t just removing eye liner as I forced the cotton ball across my lid. It was wiping away today’s identity, the me I wanted to be, the words I couldn’t say entrenched in how heavily I caked the black: my lashes coated in heart, a persona crafted by my own hand to detract from the one underneath the smudges, the paint washed away by late night confessions, evidence lost in the sink, another day, another girl forgotten.

It’s almost 2 in the morning and my eyes are burning from keeping them open too long. I didn’t sleep much last night either. I have this frustrating urge to keep fighting, to push a little longer. I don’t think I’ve ever posted a poem this late, or early, depending on how you see it, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to get these words out. I needed to try. I just need to keep trying.

Good night now,

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in Music, poetry

The Biggest Disappointment

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Biggest Disappointment He never knew the real me— the first year too nervous to say the wrong thing, the second pretending to be something else so he would see me as whatever it was he wanted that wasn’t me, trapped in someone else’s poetry, obsessed with this image, starving my integrity, my body, to play a game he didn’t want to play until I pushed and pulled so hard that I lost the one person that understood that words are not just words, ever, lost, before he even heard me.

We all make mistakes. Some carry a little more weight than others and the consequences rain harder. There’s no trick to overcoming mistakes, except maybe to let go of regret.

I went to a Matt and Kim concert last night. They have this one song called “Now” that sums it up perfectly:

I know that things aren’t perfect
But lets make tonight worth it
Stand up right here take a bow
And we will all ride this thing down
Now

All we can do is move forward and accept our imperfections, accept our mistakes, and try with all our might to not make the same ones again. No guarantees though, and that’s ok. For now, make the most of today.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry

Misfit in a Typecast World

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Misfit in a Typecast World I stood in line outside the venue breathing the exhaust of smokers’ lungs, coughing, unsure how to navigate the polluted air. No one else seemed bothered, accustomed to clouds following their groups -- stereotyped— punk kids that started smoking at age 13 because everyone else was doing it. The room already smelled of sweat even though the first band hadn’t started yet, leftovers from the last show, grunge encrusted walls, corners on posters curling in the humidity, a hotbox of male testosterone building as the space in front of the stage filled. I was the only one in the room without a facial piercing or gauged ears, at home in Kate Spade earrings, cheeks pinked with Pinot Noir, not dressed in head to toe black or a band t-shirt. I leaned against the wall, collecting the scene in future nostalgia of the time I took myself to a local band’s show, a misfit in a typecast world, the preppy girl alone in the corner that knew every word, every single song, and danced harder than the guy with spikes instead of a face

Don’t put yourself in a box.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Photograph

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Photograph She nurtured the outside with as much sweat as she could, building her image with layers of lies to the point of almost believing, her ego stacked on new muscle, new clothes, a new haircut. She flaunted the addiction with calculated precision, presenting an edited version of self, tight skinny jeans to evoke jealousy, manipulating the perceptions around to see only what she wanted. They accepted the picture she showed them, unaware, uncaring what ticked inside, because a girl like that, so beautiful, so outgoing could never feel invisible beneath her designer t-shirts.

My friend Katie took this picture of me. I didn’t know she was taking it at the time, otherwise I probably would have made a silly face or looked away. There’s something about candid pictures that are the best because they expose a side of us we so frequently hide from the world.

Tonight’s song is “Fly” by Sleeping with Sirens. Loving their new album.

What are you most afraid for people to see? For me, it’s fear.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

I’m Not

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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

The Search

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Search It was a bad match, he and I, the clash of sarcasms the platitude of the air between the unmerged points of view and the stubbornness to see into the other, trusting the existential suggestions of the stomach— duck under the table and run. Square one— the loss of faith in star alignment and the relief to escape the confinement of public image, rather be singing in the car than crossing and uncrossing legs in a restaurant, excusing myself to the bathroom— seething at the necessity of first dates, playing a game of would you rather be doing fill in the blank anything than continue the conversation with this someone that said I was beautiful.

Who knows what makes two people compatible. What is it about someone that ignites the spark and electrifies our desires? It’s breathtaking when that happens, but equally as profound is the absence of that spark, when just getting through dinner feels like crawling on hands and knees through the mud.

Have a wonderful Saturday my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Break Away

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Break Away I don’t feel like crafting poetry, meticulously measuring every word to fit in some designed form, throwing away perfectly good ones because they aren’t rhythmic or specific or innovative enough. Poetry is too complicated, simultaneously too efficient, leaving out half the story, forgetting that the clutter between the words is part of the song too, the stumbles and mistakes, the version before the rewrite, the decisions regretted just as worthy. I have too much to say to limit the emotion to single images. I’m overwhelmed and I don’t know where to start, so I’ll write it all, all the dismay of this one day shared in unabridged confession:

My biggest challenge in my writing is clutter. I use too many words and too many fillers, or at least I used to. I’ve worked on refining my verse quite a bit, but it’s exhausting! Hell, sometimes I want to overuse adverbs and let my rant run free, no matter how inarticulate the finished product.

Lately I’ve been writing in stream of consciousness form. I don’t judge. I don’t edit. I don’t stop. I just write. This piece was the first. I didn’t change a word.

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Freak

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Freak You don’t know about the paranoia nestled in my fingernails. I pick at my cuticles to get at it, peeling through to the blood vessels beneath. I haven’t heard from you in three days and the skin around my nails looks like an active volcano, lava crusting against cracked rock. I fear that you forgot me. I clench my fists in desperation, to quiet the obsession, the need to be needed. I concede to speak against your silence. My hands cramp in the waiting. I succumb to insecurity— the translucence of my ghost white complexion, that you don’t see enough of me to remember my presence. I rip at flesh with my teeth, the taste of blood staining my tongue. I measure my worth in your wants, a bad habit.

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry, writing

The Last Word

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

 

The last Word A poem can be a line, she said. I couldn’t leave it without justifying, barking thoughts after the fact, a defense mechanism, an expression of my own apprehension to accept simplicity. I worry what they all think, what he thinks, fear manifested in ramblings that say nothing. A poem can be a line.

I’m having an out of body experience at the moment, looking at the last week of my life from across a room. I see it and I think I feel it, but I can’t quite believe it’s mine. 

Celebrate luck with wine, good food, and many many hugs. 

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Way Those Jeans

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Way Those Jeans They buttoned, a victory of at least getting into their confines, even though I had to jump and wiggle to manipulate the dimensions, even though I reinvented their intended silhouette, even though I challenged the fabric to stretch beyond its comfort zone, even though the mannequin wore them higher across the middle, and even though I refused to leave the safety of the dressing room, I loved the way those jeans fit. Find the confidence in yourself to feel sexy. The struggle is real in all of us. Tell someone you love that they’re beautiful today.

Have a merry Sunday, friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

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

Slowtown

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

SlowtownIt’s Saturday, it’s sunny, and I just ate an enormous vegan peanut butter cup from one of my favorite places in St. Louis (see my twitter or instagram for reference). What I’m getting at is that it’s a perfect time for a poetry break, especially when it’s inspired by a Twenty One Pilots song. “Slowtown” is off their Regional at Best album, which sadly, is hard to get a copy of. No matter; give a listen from good ol’ YouTube below.

Check out all my poetry titled after TOP songs in my archives and stop by again soon for more poetic musings inspired by music.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Faced

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Faced

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Inside Out

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Inside OutI saw Catching Fire this morning, and though I very much recommend it, I warn that it will ruin your makeup within the first five minutes, and then inspire you to write about crying. Have a good weekend!