Tag: Leanne Rebecca

Posted in desire

Deja Vu

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Deja Vu She fought old habits with an almost perfect record, suppressing the desire inside her stomach with the willpower of ignoring nausea, swallowing until the feeling abated, closing eyes until the chunks receded, breathing through each moment and winning. All it took was a single lapse in control for the sickness to rise and remind her of how it felt the last time she fell and his touch and in that second of concession she made the mistakes again in characteristic progression, a single sliver of time to lose herself and everything she’d worked to change. —Leanne Rebecca

My biggest life advice at the moment is to try not to overthink everything. Easier said than done, I know.

Have a splendid rest of your day, friends.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

Up to Here

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Up to Here A 3 pm glass of wine— that’s where she turned after all the preceding hours in the day dried up the patience she’d forgotten to stockpile for times when dust betrayed perspective.

In the moment.

Have a great long weekend!

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, writing

Terrible Idea

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Terrible Idea There wasn’t an objective at the start, just desire— just pieces misaligned and confused by too many rhymes. I didn’t know whether or not it was a terrible idea, whether or not the pieces would come together, but I had to try. I took a leap of faith, jumped into the air before I knew what type of landing I’d fall to. Turns out the pieces cracked further when I hit the ground, a conflict of concrete and bone, and a lot of words that hurt.

This was not the poem that I set out to write tonight. In fact I’m feeling a little blocked.

This might be a no no to admit, but I’m not even sure what it’s about, not really. It’s a mashup of several story lines, as if all my demons of the past 3 years are fighting for attention but none of them are winning. This isn’t supposed to be a sad poem, just a reflection.

Our lives are composed of the intertwining of faith and falling. No matter where you are in that process, I hope you are at peace.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in life, love, poetry

The After Poem

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The After Poem I couldn’t tell if the light shinning in my room was from the sun or the street lamp camped outside my window. Time was irrelevant, days blurred together by Fireball, unsure if the sickly gnawing in my stomach was hunger or the early stages of a hangover. I rolled over and covered my head with my comforter, choosing the sweaty hotbox of blankets in the summertime over spilled light in my eyes. When I woke up again I heard my roommate talking. Morning. Another human. Still alive. I drank a glass of water and realized I felt ok. The slosh in my stomach had abated with sleep. All I’d needed was time. For the first time in two years I was ok, more than ok. Ready.

The most cathartic moment of struggle is when you realize you aren’t struggling anymore. Yesterday was my 25th birthday and today is a new beginning.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Destiny

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Destiny She knew she was a poet when she let the tears break and blur the facade on her face, running black from the tip of her nose to the page below her palm. She collected all the faith she’d once put into him in an envelope and sealed it away, letting the waterfall smudge all the words she’d ever written. She knew she was a poet in that moment, the need to write her heart as crippling as the moment she met him, just a memory, a fleeting love, old journal entries filed away. He was gone, but she wrote anyway, falling over and over for her passion. She didn’t need to learn to love again, because her soul was already home.

It’s ok to cry, always. I wrote this one in the last five minutes through a waterfall on my face. I’m so thankful to have all your support on here. Means everything.

This one is for my friend Katie.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Always and Forever

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Always and Forever I don’t know how I forgot about that book. I saw it in the window of a used bookstore last week, stumbling into childhood nostalgia as if jumping into a puddle, both feet all at once, splashed by flashes of of my mom cradling me in her arms, singing the made up melody to the song in that forgotten book. I’m amazed I learned to sleep without her hug, without her voice rocking me into dreams, without the comfort of a mother in the room down the hall, amazed I could wake without the gentle coaxing of her singing and the warmth of her arms holding me, assuring me that she’d keep me safe. Wake up Leanne, wake up Leanne, wake up, wake up, wake up, she’d sing, coaxing my eyes to open, teaching me through song how to fill a room with love, and bright eyed soak it up with the morning sun. I always felt ready for the day, nurtured by her hand in mine, fingers always and forever intertwined until the moment she knew she could let go, taking off the training wheels to my bicycle, and watch me ride alone. —Leanne Rebecca

I write this poem with extreme thanks for the blessed life that I’ve led, a carefree childhood and loving family. I recognize that Mother’s Day isn’t rainbows and butterflies for many people: mothers that have lost their children, children that have lost their mothers, broken families, reality. Even in my family, there’s an element of sadness on this day. My parents buried their first child when she was 16 months old. This is also the first Mother’s Day since my Grandma Genny died.

It’s easy to forget that many many emotions surround this day and where one family smiles another might cry. It’s important to empathize and take a moment to think about the true weight of this day. I find it allows me to appreciate what I have that much more. I’m beyond thankful to be filled with so much love.

I love you, Mom.

–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 honesty, poetry

Glory One Day

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Glory One Day The oppression formed a mushroom cloud around my entire body, trapping years of everything I couldn’t say in smog laden prison. I suffocated from the inside out, suppressed by the need to control every breath, every swallow, obsessing like a hypochondriac, everything was wrong and nothing. I needed your permission to open my soul to the world outside of me, to not feel consumed by the ashes of regrets and stop fighting just stop and find the glory of staring mistakes in the eye, owning their weight with faith that one day I’ll learn to let them fade, lifted by release.

This weekend I saw Paramore, one of my favorite bands, play at the Beale Street Music Festival in Memphis. I was moved to literal tears by the set and turned to my friend and said, “it’s crazy how much I relate to their music.” My friend looked me in the eye and said, “Leanne, it’s not crazy because we all feel that way.”

We all go through struggles, many of them more similar to the stranger sitting next to you than you might realize. We all go through cycles of making mistakes, growing, learning, and discovering glory on the other side of the darkness we never thought we’d find our way out of. Stay strong my friends and don’t be so hard on yourselves.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

Warning

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Warning There’s an explosive in my vagina at the ready to detonate, controlling the words I say, the who’s I manipulate, the culprit of the mistakes I didn’t mean to make. There’s an explosive in my vagina, implanted and yelling like a second brain, demanding and taunting, ravaging self-restraint until the regrets pile up like beer bottles at a party.

Back in college, in the one and only poetry class I ever took, my teacher looked us all in the eye and said, “If you’ve never written a poem about sex, you should.” I questioned whether or not it was a good idea to post this poem on here, but for the sake of being real, I decided to go for it. I wrote this in the afternoon while having a casual conversation with my roommate about going to the gynecologist.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in cheesy, poetry

Hopeless Romantic

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Hopeless Romantic I imagine tripping during a hike, falling into his arms as he helps me find my feet again. He lingers with letting me go, staring through my rustled bangs beyond my blue eyes, him losing balance, falling together.

We all have our cheesy moments.

Goodnight my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry

Overload

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

She told him the truth to stop the conversations in her head, expelling the catalyst before it sparked and exploded, leaving bits of brain stuck to her bedroom wall. She coughed into her hand, choking up the seed that had implanted in her grace, violating her sophistication like a hijacker, a virus. He accepted the gift, the honesty wrapped up in a ticking package, listening with the guise of patience, imperceptibly backpedaling away to dispose of the bomb dropped in his lap. Their eyes locked, both pulsating with intensity, sapphires reflecting the depth of the burden she’d bestowed on his conscience, truths too intense for his heart to bear, her fight, not his. She recognized his reticence, reaching her hand back out as though comforting a child, a gentle expression of assurance. She thought for a second he wouldn’t let her take it back.

Have you ever had someone tell you a secret you wish you didn’t have to carry? When it comes to my friends, I would rather they unload their heaviest burdens on me and let me support them rather than have them hold those secrets alone. On the flip side though, that often means I’m very honest with opening up about my struggles and I wonder if sometimes I share too much. I never want to be a burden.

I’m of the mindset that we should always support those that we care about, no matter what. The best of friends should never give up on one another, no matter how heavy our honesty weighs. I encourage you to tell your friends you love them and make sure they truly know it, not because you told them, but because you were there to carry them on your shoulders when they couldn’t walk.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Song

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Song No one knows about this: Two houses ago, back when I lived with my parents, I’d shut myself into my room, severing presence with headphones as I lost myself in the same song over and over and over, drowning as the lyrics cried with me— “Are you searching for purpose? Then write something, yeah it might be worthless Then paint something then, it might be wordless Pointless curses, nonsense verses” —I was trapped in that God damn song, lost in blurred vision, gasping for anything I could scribble to dig roots beyond those moments, pleading with existentialism, so afraid to let anyone hear me, and praying that someone would. I begged for understanding, crippled into the crux of my pillow, forever listening, forever waiting— “Leave me alone. Don't leave me alone.”

Kitchen Sink — Twenty One Pilots.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry, writing

Integrity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, desire, poetry, writing

Sunday Morning

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Sunday Morning She woke with a breath, a single stream of light shooting like an arrow into her squinting eye. She stretched her arms wide, covering the expanse of the empty bed, hand lingering on the untouched pillow, longing tensing in her stomach like starvation. She hated the need for him, that he consumed her first thoughts on a Sunday morning, that he robbed her sanity. She rolled over, gathering an armful of comforter, hugging tight, cuddling something other than emptiness, holding on to something other than all the words she’d said to a brick wall.

I like the freedom of Sunday mornings, that I could sleep indefinitely if I wanted, that I can waste the morning making pancakes and then eat them in bed. I rarely make plans for Sundays, just drift through the day and see what happens, let who I see be a surprise.

–Leanne Rebecca