Posted in dream, poetry

Cover of Dusk

Cover of Dusk  I imagined their story as I walked by their house: a couple in their early thirties one year old daughter asleep in her room the dinner party winding down inside glasses of chardonnay clinking pearl necklaces and red lipstick smudges how they’d all been friends since college.  I slowed my pace as the haze of their perfection tightened in my throat, prey to the outsider’s perception: a brick walkway leading to their front door trimmed rose bushes  silhouettes mingling in light cast shadows through their windows.  A mosquito bit my arm, the signal to lengthen my stride, move past fantasies of someone else’s family, stop obsessing over picket white fences, the bad date I went on the night before, that it would be years,  before finding that dream for myself.   I walked on, cheeks soaking up the sweat and tears beading on my skin in the humidity, thankful at least for the setting sun, the cover of dusk to mask this headspace so no one would have to know that seeing their daughter’s swing hanging on a tree in their front yard made me cry.

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Posted in growing up, love, poetry

Self

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 art, poetry, writing

Eyelash

Eyelash  I make the same wish on every errant eyelash. I peel the escapee from my cheek and capture it on the tip of my finger, think my dream in the capsule of a blink, pucker my lips and let a single wisp of air carry it into infinity.  I inhale reality when I look back in the mirror— one less eyelash to cover with mascara.

I’ve started writing in a diary. I’ve found I like the senseless entries, writing whatever comes to my mind, confessing secrets, knowing no one is ever going to read these words (hopefully). One of my favorite teachers back in college used to tell us to write for 15 minutes a day, no matter what it was. The whole point was to develop the discipline to write. I used to write lists of what I did that day or complain about my homework. But then I finished that class and the journal entries stopped.

About two months ago I started them again, maybe not every single day, but whenever I feel like it. This poem is inspired by what I wrote in my journal today during my lunch break, scribbles about it being February and how it’s the month of love. It provoked a particular memory, something profound that happened to me in a February past, and before I knew it, I’d written this poem.

What do you think of when you think of February?

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Slowtown

SlowtownIt’s Saturday, it’s sunny, and I just ate an enormous vegan peanut butter cup from one of my favorite places in St. Louis (see my twitter or instagram for reference). What I’m getting at is that it’s a perfect time for a poetry break, especially when it’s inspired by a Twenty One Pilots song. “Slowtown” is off their Regional at Best album, which sadly, is hard to get a copy of. No matter; give a listen from good ol’ YouTube below.

Check out all my poetry titled after TOP songs in my archives and stop by again soon for more poetic musings inspired by music.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Addicted to Disney

Addicted to DisneyThis one’s an oldie. I just watched Mirror Mirror, a silly take on Snow White starring Lily Collins and Julia Roberts, so it seemed like an appropriate throwback. It was published in Pastiche Magazine (a small online journal) last summer during my run as their featured poet for the month of July. It’s strange to look back at previous writings. It’s hard not to judge myself and also bittersweet to experience the emotions from a distance, especially poems that dive into dark scary places I never want to visit again. I think it’s important to look back though and see how far I’ve grown in so many aspects of my self and my work.

A question to my fellow writers:

Do you ever look back at old work and do you find it difficult to look at it objectively?

Oh, and follow me on Twitter. …please.

Posted in Music, poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Fall Away

Fall AwayThis piece jumped out at me this morning as I scoured my Word document of poems named after twenty one pilots tracks, my ongoing Saturday series on She’s in Prison. Something about this poem grabbed me as I reflect and recover from a car accident a couple days ago.

As always, check out the twenty one pilots version of “Fall Away” below and find the archives from my other TOP titled poems HERE.