Tag: poetry

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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

My Corner

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

My Corner I microwaved leftover frozen pizza for breakfast. It was all I could do, sit by myself in this chair in the corner eat the damn soggy pizza and try to not think about last night.

Poetry can be whatever you want it to be.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in confidence, poetry, story

Still Looking

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Still Looking I wanted to find the perfect poem that captured the library in my head, my story inked in proof that I’m not unique. I didn’t fit in any of the verses, marking my world into their margins, their words not quite what I needed to read. I asked existentially if anyone understood, if they could help me understand this aimless search to feel grounded in someone else.

I’ve been obsessed with reading poetry lately, scouring the internet for hidden gems, loving the surge of available verse with National Poetry Month in full swing. I’ve found some good stuff, but haven’t yet found one that really hits me. I want to be brought to tears. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Flutter

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Flutter She’d grown addicted to disintegrating, disappearing in bits like a withering sand castle, eroding away until someone would come along and pack her back together, subsisting in transience, never at peace with integrity, a master at sabotaging her own strength, artful almost, fluttering into pieces with the grace of fluidity, falling again and again in perfect rhythm.

It feels like it’s been awhile since I’ve been on here. Every time I’ve tried to write a poem in the last several days I end up cranking out about 2 lines and then “finishing” the poem with several words of profanity before closing my notebook and filling up a glass of wine. There isn’t more to the story. Writing is rarely glamorous.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, love, my life, poetry

Insanity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Insanity She imploded into the cavern inside her chest, fizzled from the outside in like a fading ember until he couldn’t see her anymore. She wondered if he’d ever seen her. She stayed trapped inside the hole, buried as deep as the years it took to dig, knowing only one hand could pull her out, a hand she knew would never come. From the darkness she yelled his name, pleading with his fear to reach into her heart and relinquish vulnerability, but he couldn’t hear her, had never heard her. Still she begged, chastised by the echo bouncing off his silence. She wondered how many ways she could write about the same emotion before she exploded.

My dad asked me a couple days ago if I knew what the definition of insanity was. Yes, I said, it’s trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So he asked me why I keep trying.

Some things are worth going crazy over.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Chance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Chance She convinced him with one look to take a chance on her lips, a sideways glance entrancing hands to wrap around waists and necks, to slip out of the strobe lights and into dark corners. He wrapped his attention around her mystery, a girl so soft-spoken she almost blended into the wall paint, emerging from invisibility, catching the corner of his eye, her downturned lashes faltering his control. He needed to know her. She fed on his intrigue, a vampire preying on his intoxication, his involuntary lust to touch, falling trap to her game, her mastery of magnetism. But he was just a number, a nameless mannequin to satisfy a night’s play, a symbol of her fear to take a chance on love.

I just moved into a new apartment. I feel like I’m starting a new life, starting over, taking ownership of the aspects of my life I didn’t own before. I asked my roommate tonight what her advice to you all would be if she could impart one piece of wisdom. By happenstance, she said “take a chance.”

Beautiful.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Storm

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Storm I remember the fear I used to feel when the sky would turn green, huddling under a blanket as hail rained, my parents watching the local news as nighttime ravaged the afternoon sun. It’s the same fear I feel now, exposed to a vastness outside my window, that even though my parents love me, the Midwestern storm still has the upper hand. I concede vulnerability to the elements— the ferocity of darkness, the wind raping my cheeks, eyes spilling gallons of anxiety, waking in ruble with splinters in my feet, crippled in unending fear. I’m not hiding under a blanket anymore. I’m standing in the rain accepting the challenge, knowing the torrent will pass, and the sky will illuminate again tomorrow. I am still afraid, but I face east with alacrity.

I’m often asked where I find my inspiration. Most of the time it’s random, like the color of my hot tea or hearing a song playing at the grocery store, but sometimes I seek out inspiration too. On Thursday I asked a handful of my friends what their favorite word was that day. I didn’t explain why I was asking, which netted me some pretty interesting responses, like burrito or sandwich. One of my friends even made up a word.

There were a few answers however that stuck out: storm, alacrity, and illuminate. The strength behind these words is consuming and even more intriguing are the reasons that my friends chose these. I initially intended to write a separate poem for each word, but then I realized how interconnected they could be, which again, is a pretty powerful discovery.

This poem is dedicated to my friends Kelsey, Charlie, and Cameron.

What is your favorite word today?

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Unicorn

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Unicorn You were a figment of daydream, all the quirks and intricacies of my little girl fantasies manifested in reality. Charmed, I fell, against better judgment, stumbling as though intoxicated under spell, blinded by the pixie dust twinkling around your head. I should have known I was imagining you in that moment, hallucinating, because after I wiped the dust from my eyes, I saw you weren’t perfect after all.

Listen to All Time Low. That’s my only advice for the day.

–Leanne Rebecca