Tag: passion

Posted in heart, poetry

As Emo as the Moon

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As Emo as the Moon I thought I’d write about the moon, relate the spectrum of stasis to its phases, as anorexic as its crescent thaw, unhinged in the glow of its full peak. I thought I’d write about him, the waiting game of lust’s impatience, aging though his silent draw, intoxicated in obsession’s keep. But as I sing the moon’s luminosity, its brilliance heating in a fever’s stage, I rethink love’s blind fall, and reclaim this heart, this shadowed heap. The moon will rise tomorrow night and I will scale the expanse of darkened sky, my shoes untied from desire’s draw, free, swept through stars by poetry. —Leanne Rebecca

Today someone said to me that the light in my eyes has returned. It struck me (in a good way) to hear that. I know the moment that it came back. It was the moment I decided to stop dating.

For three years I’ve bounced from date to date from guy to guy, crashing and burning over and over and over again, convinced in the end that I was incapable of sustaining a romantic relationship, that I was somehow less than, unworthy. The more I dated the more I lost myself.

About a month ago I called it quits, not from exasperation, but from a deep desire to explore my own heart, discover what I love and feed my passions with as much attention as they deserve. For the first time in three years all the pressure is gone and I’m rediscovering the girl I once was, a girl unafraid to sing her spirit, that dances in the car like no one is watching.

I never thought I’d say that the best decision I ever made for myself was to stop dating, after all, we all want to find true love and everyone says the only way to find it is to put yourself out there. But if there’s one lesson I can take away from this last month of soul searching it’s that there’s no hurry.

Take care of yourselves my loves!

–Leanne

Posted in growing up, love, poetry

Self

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Self In third grade they made us write acrostic poems set to our names, assigning adjectives like “artistic,” to our letters, falling on generic phrases: “L-loves animals.” We wrote “I am” poems in education’s attempt to encourage self-reflection, “I am a daughter, a friend, a sister.” I am me. I hated poetry, misled by an eight year old’s agony to sit at a table and reflect on breathing, trapped in the command to notice when I inhaled and exhaled. I hated that mirror, the image of thinking deeply, of trying to understand the origins of feeling. I was a child of possibility, of adventure, of laying patches of moss carpet in our backyard treehouse, unconfined by reality, unwilling to understand the structures of my own personality, imagining space and time all my own, free from this idea of pausing, of judging myself through writing. In high school I disappeared, swallowed by sweatshirts, sucked inward as if a black hole swirled in my brain, afraid to talk, afraid to look past the layers of dust settled between me and all the other desks in class, bottling in silence, getting by, imploding alone. I collected those years in journals, verses and verses of history, the days of invisibility caught in tangibility, the me never seen exploding in newfound creativity, through discovery, soul awakened in the days of university, speaking and hearing a voice with something to say, people listening, through feeling through feeling finally feeling, a new me, a poet.

In second grade I thought I was going to grow up to become a librarian. In fourth grade I saw a documentary about a cave diving marine biologist and decided I’d become a scientist, a dream that lasted until my senior year in high school when I realized I didn’t in fact like studying biology at all. Never through all those years did I think I’d grow up to be a poet. It’s a passion I fell into through taking a chance, one that took coaxing to start, but one I will never regret.

I’ve written a lot about heartbreak lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Poetry is the outlet that lets me heal, my real true love. No matter where my heart drifts or cracks, it will always have a home in words. Thank you for listening and letting me sing.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in beauty, poetry, truth

Empowerment

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Empowerment It’s the neck of a guitar worked by painted nails, edges worn, life’s living evidenced in imperfection. It’s wind dried hair flying across sun blushed cheeks, car windows down, driving 80 on the highway, music so loud the engine’s silent. It’s doing another set of 10 dead lifts as that man watches again, hovering like a wasp across the room, obsessive eyes flickering with a stinger’s bite. It’s sweat soaking the back, snaking down the collarbone, stinging the eyes and blinking through it, not letting 90 degree heat or parched lungs win. It’s crying with zeal, the passion of explosion, admitting truth in tears, relinquishing all control and letting it out, saying it all, feeling it all, the bravery of vulnerability. —Leanne Rebecca

Empowerment is writing a poem instead of falling apart. Empowerment is writing a poem in spite of falling apart. Empowerment is falling apart and writing about it the next day.

Good night my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Destiny

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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 art, Music, poetry

Misfit in a Typecast World

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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

Let Go

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Let Go I want him to squeeze me to the brim of can’t breathe, trapped beneath his muscles, saddled to his chest, counting his heartbeats. I remember how we fit, connected in embrace, synced in sentiment. Hold me and never let me go. I ache for the sensation, a single hug, a hunger settled in my tissues, a dull throb, a fever, a headache emanating from my neck and melting through the entirety of my body. He sits in my memory with a smirk, a smugness of dominance, distracting, waiting, not calling, holding me, his arms existentially holding me. Let go.

Almond butter creme filled dark chocolate #vegan #notsharing

That was my Monday. Bring it, Tuesday.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Party Trick

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Party Trick It was the way he played the guitar, his eyes closing, savoring the notes like peanut butter cups, pleasure singing in his fingertips licked to perfection in the bliss of the moment. I noticed how she’d stare, as intoxicated with his passion as he was with that instrument, a recognizable love that softened both their faces, she watching his pleasure in equal measure. She appreciated his elemental connection, accepted his attention diverted to his potential, chasing what could be, the greater than, the something more that guided his dedication. He loved that guitar, an infatuation that trumped her presence, his undeniable glory that blinded her from accepting that maybe she deserved someone who’d let her sing along. I’ve been thinking about love lately–if you couldn’t tell from most of the poems decorating the past several months on here–and in thinking about love I’ve been thinking about the “one.” Who is that person that we fall for and why? Why do we rarely end up with the person we grew up describing as our ideal partner? Why does unrequited love exist? You’d think if you feel that strong of a pull towards someone that they’d feel it back. It’s chemistry, right? Pure biology. But for whatever reason, it doesn’t always work that way, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason.

This poem goes out to my friend Cameron.

Have a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Dissonance

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Dissonance It’s sexy- the tension in his voice that infuses each note with dichotomy— masterful but not easeful, as if he’s lamenting inner conflict in gravel-laden imperfection. I’m drawn to the impurity lacing his words like a birth mark—unique to him, a signature interrupting the underlying smoothness of his skin. It turns me on, the dissonance of his poetry, the fluidity of his screaming, the crying of his passion. I listen again, falling into imagination’s cloud— who is the boy that owns that voice, that aches his story on the radio?

I’ve been on a Ghost Town kick lately. I first discovered the band about a year ago, listened a little, but for whatever reason wasn’t hooked. However a few weeks ago one of my friends made me a playlist with their song “Acid” on it. It’s a track I admittedly repeat over and over again as I’m driving. You could call me obsessed. The vocals draw me in almost like junk food. I just want more!! It got me thinking, what is it about certain songs or certain voices that attract different ears? For me, it’s the grit, the pain behind the sound. I’d always rather listen to something messy that throws emotion in your face than something perfected with stereotypical beauty. We all have our own preferences though, and mine certainly change with the seasons.

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Mirror

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Mirror

I love you Cameron. Happy snapchatting!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Fascinated

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

FascinatedMy friend Becca and I like to exchange writing prompts as a way to keep in touch (she lives on the east coast and I in the Midwest) and also to encourage each other to stretch our poetic muscles a bit. The last prompt was mine, and it proved a challenge, taking me a solid two weeks to produce. We were supposed to write about the first time we’d “met,” or in this case, the first time we saw each other. The prompt also came with a catch…it had to be the truth, regardless of what kind of light it placed the other person in. It’s been 5ish years since that fateful day, and I must say, she’s just as cool now as when she captivated me from across the room in our literary method class freshman year of college.

I recognize that maybe it’s scary to exchange this type of poem with a friend, vowing to tell the truth no matter what, but I promise it’s worth it. I loved writing this piece and I can’t wait to read what Becca thought of me all those years ago.

What would your best friends say about you the first time you locked eyes?

Posted in art, poetry, writing

But Seriously

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But Seriously

Posted in art, Josh Dun Poetry Corner, Music, poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

In the Name of Honesty

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In the Name of HonestyMy relationship with the band Twenty One Pilots is one of vulnerability and absolute admiration. Today’s Josh Dun Poetry Corner says it all. See the archives of the Corner HERE or check back every Sunday for a new post.

 

Posted in Music, poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Addict with a Pen

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Addict with a PenTonight’s post is part of my usual Saturday series of poems inspired by the titles of twenty one pilots songs. Check out the others in the series below and as always, check out twenty one pilots’ version of Addict with a Pen too.

Implicit Demand for Proof

The Run and Go

Holding on to You

Air Catcher

http://youtu.be/6h7NG25zTnU

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