Tag: poetry

Posted in honesty, journal entry, poetry

Recycled

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Recycled

I often tell people that my blog followers know more about me than anyone. I’ve never felt afraid to spill my secrets on here, mostly because I’ve only ever received support, never judgment. I like that I can write about my insecurities and struggles like I would in a journal entry, a freedom I’ve come to rely on, one that has helped me immensely in gaining confidence. I’ve started to appreciate my vulnerability as a strength and have realized that if I don’t have any fear to write about having an eating disorder or obsessions over boys on my blog, then there is no reason to hide that honesty from the people in my daily life.

I used to bottle my emotions. I never wanted to burden anyone around me with what I was feeling and my silence drove me over the edge. Few knew that I was spending my free time sobbing in my car, driving through a veil of water, alone and lost. I kept it all in until I didn’t know how to handle it anymore and I came to the conclusion that the only way to make the pain stop was to kill myself. This was 3 years ago, a time I never want to relive. I use music, writing, and an always jam-packed social life to make sure I never have to.

Since then, I’ve made it my mission to be honest with myself about my emotional health and also honest with the people around me. I don’t hide my struggles. In fact, I embrace them. I’m not afraid anymore to text a good friend and say, “hey, I’m struggling. Are you free?” What I’ve learned is astonishing. The more that I open up, the more the people around me feel comfortable to open up. It turns out that we are all fighting battles and most of us are holding them in. Now that I know the importance of talking through my insecurities, aches, and irrationalities, it’s become my mission to help the people around me open up too.

One of my best friends said recently that he wasn’t sure why, but whenever he hung out with just me, he felt comfortable talking about what was bothering him. I think it’s because we trust each other, a trust that was built upon a mutual understanding that we could be straight with one another. I will always have your back if you have mine, an unspoken agreement that started with honesty about what was below the surface.

My point with all this is that if I didn’t have poetry or this amazing community on here to help me work through all this, I’d still be that girl that hides how I’m feeling, invisible because I was too scared to let anyone see me. I thought, if I just hide my flaws, then I’ll be safe. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’m the safest when I expose my quirks, even the embarrassing ones, like having no self control in how often I text boys I have crushes on or that I like “16 year old girl” music. I want people to see ME, to know ME, to appreciate ME, because there is no other version of ME that should ever exist.

Thank you for sticking with me. You have my back and I promise, I have yours.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in desire, love, poetry

If We’d Never Met

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 poetry

What Then

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

What Then I tried to write a poem about stagnant energy, the end of the night, when social adrenaline fades, drained away like mascara down the sink, washed and erased as if it didn’t matter that it took 30 minutes to perfect your eyes. I wanted to write about that overwhelming melancholy, the drive alone back home after a party and the sourness of regret pouting on the other side of the sunrise, but I couldn’t find the motivation to find rhyme in fragmented time, to piece together an explanation for why the air around is pulsing with questions and why I can’t perceive of how we came to be here now. What then do I write of stagnant energy, of depression extracted from secret desires and sunsets expired hours ago? None of it is fair. None of it makes sense. —Leanne Rebecca

Sometimes you need to write a middle of the night poem and acknowledge that it might be raw or not make sense and that the unedited version is better than if you’d reworked it over and over again until it was “perfect.”

Good night!
–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in inspiration, love, poetry

Numbers

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Numbers

The original first line of this poem was “Started from not knowing what to write about.” I haven’t been writing much lately, which creates a void in my creative heart. I crave expression, whatever method it may come in: writing, singing, interpretive dancing under the influence of many glasses of wine, etc. This week’s been expressionless and I hate that repression of my inner child that needs to be heard, needs to shout out how I’m feeling and run around in circles without care of judgment or behavioral norms.

I put myself in a box this week. Don’t be reckless, Leanne. Don’t go out on the weekdays. Don’t drink so much wine. Stop sending your friends so many pointless texts. Do more yoga and eat salad. Don’t spend unwarranted money.

It’s like in trying to be the “better,” more responsible “adult” I lost a piece of myself along the way. One of my friends commented a few days ago that it seemed like I had lost my playfulness, my sarcastic positivity and joy for what I love. I told her I didn’t know what was wrong with me. There wasn’t anything specific to complain about. Nothing was wrong, and yet everything.

This weekend I’m crawling back out of that pointless box, starting with this much needed poem and this journal entry that has taken over this blog post.

Cheers!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, honesty, poetry

Fade

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Fade Forgotten at 80 miles an hour, headlight after headlight found and lost again, boxes kicking up dirt from the road, moving the dust of passing time, the remnants of traction shifted in changing flight, machines, the people inside faceless to the night. I’m invisible as I drive and know the tail lights ahead can’t see me cry or wonder why my hand rips at my hair as I choke on lyrics, words caught like flies in my windpipe, bowing to the mercy of whatever needs to be screamed and silenced before I reach home. Would he notice if I faded into the shadows between the street lamps, pulled the car to the side of the road and abandoned this enterprise? Or has he forgotten my face, my name as I speed along the highway in my box, collecting dead bugs, nameless to sight.

This poem didn’t capture everything that I needed to say tonight. I’m not sure what it is that I need to say right now or really what emotion I’m currently feeling. Everything tonight is nameless and blurry, and that’s how I feel about this poem. It works because it’s messy and introspective and unclear and honest, but it’s still missing something. It’s missing heart.

Good night my friends,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry, writing

To Take the Chance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Take the Chance

I’ve loved and been broken, dated again and been disappointed, and started the process all over again. Putting your heart on the line is exasperating, terrifying, and exciting and sometimes we feed off that exhilaration and put ourselves out there and other times we can think of nothing worse than going on a date. I wish I could say that taking the chance on love is always worth it. I’ve had several experiences where the heartache outweighed the benefit of telling someone that you like them. I just hold on to the hope that one of these days I’ll find that person that is as stoked to take the chance on me as I am for them. In the meantime, I write.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in fear, poetry, writing

Primal Fear

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Primal Fear More likely he was enjoying the weather, or stargazing or waiting for a friend to pick him up or contemplating crickets than anticipating a young woman getting out of her car at night, lingering on the corner between where she parked her car and her apartment, watching as her grip fastened tighter to her purse, sensing her heart freeze in the distrust of a man standing as still as a lion tracking an antelope before the kill. Get inside Get inside Get inside, she chanted in hushed urgency, succumbed to instinct's anxiety, peripheral vision locked on his posture, eyes pinned to the doorknob, imagination planning the scream that would come next. He made no move to harm her. Yet her pulse fired as she crossed the threshold into safety, assuming a lurking lion is always hungry. —Leanne Rebecca

It’s amazing how quickly adrenaline can zap your heartbeat and tense your stomach when instinctual fear kicks in. A single moment of anxiety can linger for hours as the body struggles to let go of that jolt of intensity. I will most likely never know what that man was doing, standing on the corner outside of my apartment building, and I will never be able to explain why I felt such innate distrust, but I am certain of one thing: his presence had a lasting impression on me. Hours later, I’m still afraid to turn off my light and slip into the impending, terror infused dreams awaiting my psyche.

Sleep well, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, introspection, poetry

Brainstorm

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Brainstorm I could write about how the clouds changed green and gray building rage tension charging in the air the tornado siren the single drop of rain that punched my shoulder how my pace quickened to get back home could write about the graffiti on the sidewalk spray paint mocking craftsmanship the littering of rebellion could write about the guy in the parking lot that chucked a beer bottle out of his jeep window how he didn’t know I’d seen that I didn’t pick up the trash once he’d driven off could write about the memory on replay: the first time I saw him the burn of a heart pre-breaking how I knew he’d be a problem before knowing his name that he wouldn’t care either way could write about how the sky waited to shed its tears until I got back inside back to the dark room and the leftover balloons from last night the sadness aching in their silence could write about anxiety how I felt alien to my body today atrophied by a need to escape nowhere to go not sure who to go with or why breathing seemed daunting in that moment. —Leanne Rebecca

I didn’t know what to write about so I wrote about it all.

Posted in introspection, poetry, struggle

Ghost

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Ghost There I was, the girl sitting alone at a table in Whole Foods, licking chocolate off my fingers, heart in my head, guitar in my ears, stars lost in cynical fear, convinced no one could see my existence under the florescent hue. So I licked away, sucking on every knuckle until I’d captured all the chocolate, hands cleansed of the transgression, no trace that it ever happened, no evidence that I’d been there at all. Tomorrow is my dead sister’s birthday, but you’d never know that.

Tonight is one of those nights that I could rant forever about what’s on my mind. Often though, I feel like I’ve already exhausted writing about my struggles. There are only so many times you can fill page after page with emotional drama, self-doubt, existential questioning, etc. There comes a point where you have to acknowledge it but figure out a way to channel everything you’d scribble in terribly written prose into something productive. I don’t want to dwell on struggle. I want to live today and love today. Everything is fleeting.

Happy birthday dear Becky.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in friendship, love, poetry

Nothing Weird About It

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Nothing Weird About It They made fun of me— that I liked punk music, drawn towards androgynous men with eyeliner and tattoos, that I never outgrew the teenage emo stage. They called me names— derogatory jabs to bring me down, politically, socially, morally incorrect pet names, mongoloid, useless and naive. They teamed up to abuse me— attacking my secret vulnerability, extreme ticklishness, backing me into the corner of the room, physically pinning me down, outnumbered. They ignored my texts called me out flipped me off berated my diet told me I was weird. A gravitational field pulled me towards them— the sarcastic ones, friends gifting vulgarity as if “fuck you” had replaced the words “I love you.” I’d never trade any of it. —Leanne Rebecca

There’s no magic formula to finding best friends. They manifest from unlikely places and often the people you may have felt hesitant to let into your world end up being the ones that mean the most. Once you find them though, you never let them go.

Tonight I’m feeling thankful.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, truth

Journal Entry

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Journal Entry I converse with living lines that promised they’d keep my secrets, trust binding in blood, loyalty flowing into open arms that will never let me go. I wrote them so that I’d never have to tell anyone the transgressions and truths housed in secret pages, afraid to crack open this vessel encrypted in a handcrafted image. I’m ready to confess the emotional violence burrowed inside, ready to invest in a tangible presence, stop hiding, stop fighting, let insecurity fly: I thought about throwing up after I ate those cupcakes, flush the mistake down the toilet, convinced none of my clothes would fit if I didn’t. I thought about calling him even though he’s ignored my existence for weeks, lost in persistence, disregarding his decision. I cried a couple times this week, worried I’m too selfish, too fragile too dramatic, unstable, emotionally incapable of falling in love with someone that loves me too. I share these truths, terrified.

Posted in art, desire, poetry

A Walk in the Rain

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Walk in the Rain The gray consumed the cheer of daylight like a spreading fire engulfing its surroundings, a presence as looming as the fear of asking a crush on a date. I walked outside anyway, daring the sky to rain its demons down and envelop my body with discomfort, wet and cold and scared of the thunder. Exhilarated I kept pace, seething with confidence, willing to take the chance the storm could explode before I got home.

I’m more scared of being trapped inside all day than getting a little wet in the rain. Take the chance, always.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in death, life, poetry

Never Again

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Never Again I do what I can to avoid that place, that head space when I needed an end to escape friendlessness, the torment not being able to feel my own breathing, a carcass driving aimless going nowhere, those days alone listening to song after song, wishing home felt like home, wishing my voice could rise, that invisible me could be seen. Those days may have died as I learned to dispose of emotion, crying out the suicide, leaving the drops of intention to dry in a trail behind. But the scar still haunts, still taunts at this heart, whispers no one else can hear or know to understand, to allow my hand to hold a little tighter, to feel their pulse against mine, to help me feel alive. I do what I can to avoid that place, incessant texts, aggressive pursuit of connection, random sex and make out sessions, singing as loud as scabbed lungs will allow, forcing your fingers in mine and pulling you close, begging you to stay so that I’m not alone, afraid, betrayed by the yesterdays when the threat of death was the only time I felt relevant. —Leanne Rebecca

Tonight I’m obsessed with the song “Scene Four – Don’t You Ever Forget About Me” by Sleeping with Sirens. I’m pretty sure my roommate hates me because I just played it about 7 times in a row:

Don’t you ever forget about me
When you toss and turn in your sleep
I hope it’s because you can’t stop thinking about
The reasons why you close your eyes
I haunt your dreams at night
So you can’t stop thinking about me
Don’t stop thinking about me

Do you really think you could see this through
Put on a smile and wear it for someone new
Don’t you do it
‘Cause I know I’m not the easiest one to love
But every ounce I have
I invest in you
But no one said love’s not for taking chances

Hitting home.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

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Tricked The room dimmed with the sunset, the space that hours before had been filled with conversation— friends drinking champagne, investing fractions of their lives in sharing time— now faded into shadow, the imprint of connection dying as we drifted back to segregation, alone in introspection’s isolation as if the party had never happened, as if he’d never talked to me, as if they’d never met, as if our imaginations tricked us into believing loneliness isn’t a chronic disease. —Leanne Rebecca

There’s something about the close of the weekend that requires epic introspection. Now is the time, when everyone is winding down and setting their Monday morning alarm clocks, to take a few moments and reflect on what’s running most prominently through your brain.

Sometimes I struggle with these hours of solitude, feeling lost in their isolation, afraid of the silence. Other times I welcome the freedom. Tonight I feel both with equal weight.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in desire, love, poetry

Geometry

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

We’ve aligned ourselves in a conundrum, standing in a circle that doesn’t connect, dancing round and round this game of heartache, tripping out of line, falling in passion's trap, waiting for the hand next door to pull us back into the flirtation of friendship, the guise of fitting together, sucked deep into the mystery of not quite chemistry, the him and the me and the him and the her and the us confused by timing, by equations we can’t solve. So we walk side by side at an impasse, frustrated by the same emotion, all in love but not with the right one.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. One of my best friends just got engaged and we’ve been talking about how she knew that he was her partner for life. Her answer, simple and honestly vague, is that something deep inside her just knew.

There’s no common factor that can explain why sometimes we feel romantic chemistry and sometimes we don’t. There’s no trick to lining up that connection. I’ve always been someone that feels it right away and in my experience, no matter how much time I spend with a person doesn’t change whether or not that spark is there. I do believe that love is a decision, ultimately, but it’s foundation is built upon that invisible force that draws you to each other. It’s frustrating when chemistry just misses or when bad timing prevents the heart from sensing it. There are no set paths to falling in love and that exploration, that heartbreak, that discovery, that journey is why we write.