Tag: peace

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Unfurl

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Unfurl She felt scared to let go, bound up in crossed arms as if encased in a plaster cast while the bruises healed. It hurt when he touched her, hurt more when she liked it, wanting to unwrap her arms, uncoil the wire from her wrists and open her chest to feel the sun and the wind and the rain against her skin, unprotected and unfurled in trust. But she hugged her elbows tighter, scared to let go, binding her palms so she wouldn’t push this one away.

I can’t explain why it’s my favorite word. It’s something to do with how romantic it sounds and all the connotations it holds, both good and bad. It’s animalistic and peaceful. It’s simple and loaded with meaning. It’s perfect. Say it and listen to it’s beauty: unfurl. What’s your favorite word?

Today was certainly a Monday. Unfurl a little tonight.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Visibility

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Visibility Someone must have seen me sitting there, spitting cherry seeds into a plastic baggie, shoes off, cross legged, and glistening in the thickness of St. Louis humidity. I laid down on the quilt protecting my clothes from grass stains and pulled a book from my purse. I estimated I could read about a chapter before the next band started their set. I tuned out the cacophony of intoxicated friends, the thousands of couples and families and besties camped out on the lawn of the amphitheater. I muted their chatter as if dialing down the volume in my car, driving my attention anywhere I wanted, sneaking peaks at the sky over the rim of my book, not caring how many people didn’t see me lying there, alone at a concert at peace with my own ego, so nonchalant in my solitude, that the issue of visibility floated away with every lyric and every movement and every heartbeat of freedom screamed from the silence of no one beside me.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Regarded

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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?

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Cacophony

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

CacophonyS/O to Charlie Unger.