Tag: sadness

Posted in love, poetry

Dry

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Dry I was so used to feeling soggy, soaking wet underneath cascades of gray, shoes weighing my feet, filled with the water collected from my head to my toes that I couldn’t fathom another existence. It rained everyday until it didn’t. —Leanne Rebecca

The sun will come out tomorrow, and when it does, I hope it brings a smile to your face.

–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 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 art, poetry

A Voice Lost

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Voice Lost I wish I could find any reason at all to lay your name in these lines, to replace blank space with quiescence, silence with fire, to find a song at all.

What’s on your mind?

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Always and Forever

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Always and Forever I don’t know how I forgot about that book. I saw it in the window of a used bookstore last week, stumbling into childhood nostalgia as if jumping into a puddle, both feet all at once, splashed by flashes of of my mom cradling me in her arms, singing the made up melody to the song in that forgotten book. I’m amazed I learned to sleep without her hug, without her voice rocking me into dreams, without the comfort of a mother in the room down the hall, amazed I could wake without the gentle coaxing of her singing and the warmth of her arms holding me, assuring me that she’d keep me safe. Wake up Leanne, wake up Leanne, wake up, wake up, wake up, she’d sing, coaxing my eyes to open, teaching me through song how to fill a room with love, and bright eyed soak it up with the morning sun. I always felt ready for the day, nurtured by her hand in mine, fingers always and forever intertwined until the moment she knew she could let go, taking off the training wheels to my bicycle, and watch me ride alone. —Leanne Rebecca

I write this poem with extreme thanks for the blessed life that I’ve led, a carefree childhood and loving family. I recognize that Mother’s Day isn’t rainbows and butterflies for many people: mothers that have lost their children, children that have lost their mothers, broken families, reality. Even in my family, there’s an element of sadness on this day. My parents buried their first child when she was 16 months old. This is also the first Mother’s Day since my Grandma Genny died.

It’s easy to forget that many many emotions surround this day and where one family smiles another might cry. It’s important to empathize and take a moment to think about the true weight of this day. I find it allows me to appreciate what I have that much more. I’m beyond thankful to be filled with so much love.

I love you, Mom.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Flutter

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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, honesty, poetry, writing

Black Hole

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Black Hole What do you write about when you’re listening to songs about love the week before Valentine’s day, holding on to how breathtaking the sunset was yesterday as the melancholy of another year is settling into the cracks of your skin? You can’t, because you can’t describe the way it feels, that numbness in your chest, that buzzing of nothingness that hums like florescent lights, tinting the surroundings a little sickly, a green and yellow hue that accentuates the purple veins in your skin, the only proof there’s blood still flowing, that you’re not invisible. You listen to the acoustic melodies of someone else’s beating heart and pretend it doesn’t bother you that no one’s ever told you they love you.

I couldn’t sleep last night. My brain raced and raced and finally at 6 am I decided to just get up and shower. Isn’t it strange how sometimes the things we want the most we just can’t have. I just wanted to sleep in on a Saturday, but some force out there in the universe had a different plan.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Eyelash

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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, poetry, writing

Solo Dining

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Solo Dining I’m counting the droplets as they accumulate on the other side of this window. I shiver, too aware of the chill trapped in the glass, drinking my water too quickly without pause of conversation. I’ve already been to the bathroom once, lugged all my stuff with me—purse, coat, phone— uncertain if I could trust its loneliness at the empty table. I’m pretty sure they had sex last night. My server tells me she remembers me from last time, it’s the side of peanut butter, my signature. She says she admires the solo dining. I chuckle, an utterance infused with amusement and lies, wondering when I got so used to eating alone. I lay my napkin across my lap, adhering to the good graces of decorum, even though no one is here to care if I pull the pieces of my French toast apart with my hands or if I lick my fingers or that I dragged my bracelet through my maple syrup, pulling a trail of sticky across the table or that I used my spit to shine up the charm again. I know they had sex last night. She’s in his bed now, a morning cuddle. My server asks if she can get me anything else. A shot of whiskey, I think. She fills up my water before bringing the bill. I’ve sucked it dry by the time I sign the receipt.

The weather’s bringing me down today. Side note: I’m also obsessed with this FOB song.

This is usually the moment I tell you to make the most of the rest of your weekend, but that would be hypocritical as I’m currently sitting on a couch in the dark basement of my parents’ house. At least I’m listening to pop punk.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poem, poetry, writing

Hide and Go Seek

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Hide and Go Seek I found her at the bottom of a glass of wine, the second glass actually. She giggled as she unfurled, throwing her hair back like a wet dog shaking out its coat, a declaration of space, blithe dominance with selfish intention, anything for her own comfort. I thought I’d lost her, collapsed under a desiccated heart, trapped in the rubble of self-doubt, forever hiding in the aftermath of tragic non-love stories. I counted to 100, then 1000, opened my eyes and found her right in front of me, stretching in my beverage, peeking out and smirking, the coyness of flirtation, a dare to grab her hand and hold on for the night.

We made it past hump day. Smile 🙂

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Grocery Store

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Grocery Store I lived alone for three months in a new city, didn’t know a soul. Every day I’d walk a mile to the grocery store, spend twenty minutes deciding which vegan cookie to buy and walk back. Sometimes it was Starbucks or the farmer’s market in Studio City. Or drive to Santa Monica to buy my cookie at a bakery and drive back to what I called home. Once it was a restaurant and I walked three miles in the smog to get there. I never cried in those three months. It’s only now, years later, when I go to the grocery store alone that the sadness shows. Maybe it’s the guilt of all those cookies piled up on my thighs, the leftovers of a time not quite forgotten or maybe it’s that I didn’t expect the loneliness to last.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Anything

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Anything Driving in a car and it's raining. I touch all the buttons on the radio anything but talking only commercials, radio shows, white noise of Saturday mornings when you didn't quite force the body to sleep long enough. We're going to walk the mall, anything to leave the house and stir the blood, to move the mind out of the place where thinking's bad too much, too fast that it sounds like static.

I’ve eaten nothing but cookies for the past five days. That’s what happens when you make them on Christmas Eve and double the recipe because your mom told you to and end up with a full box of leftovers because you made too many cookies. I think I’ll go for a run today.

I wanted to post this poem yesterday. I’d set my intention the night before: I will write a poem on Saturday morning. But somehow I slept in and before I knew it I was out of the house, starting my day, and I’d forgotten about poetry completely. It’s a rare occurrence–me forgetting about poetry–but I’d like to think there’s some meaning behind it.

Happy Sunday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Emotional Creature

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Emotional Creature There's nothing wrong with me. I'm swallowed by feeling, the realness of feeling, feelings not wrong, just deep, deeper than yours, extreme manifested in shakes, holding my stomach. There's nothing wrong with me. I stand in front of the toilet weigh the pain, it hurts no matter what, hurts more than you could know. I'll never say, just hold my stomach in silence. There's nothing wrong with me. I curl my knees in, shoulder crammed to the floor pools beneath my face drowning in feeling. I feel. I live. I feel. There's nothing wrong with me.

I’m currently obsessed with “Out of the Woods”on Taylor Swift’s new album and that is the most important news I have to share. Sing with me.

Have a splendid Wednesday, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Fundraiser

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Fundraiser They all shared the same memory, all those moms and dads dressed up in black, shirts ironed, wined glasses drained, purple teeth exposed in opposition to the tragedy lacing their hearts. She told me she couldn’t look at any more pictures, the blue tinged lips, more tubes than days old, the hands they’d never hold again, ghosts smiling slide after slide on the screen in the corner of the room, the babies that inspired the sad moms and dads to tie their ties and sip wine, signing checks, praying for miracles for the sake of someone else’s child.

Dedicated to my sister Becky, whom I never met.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Holding On

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Holding On He didn’t remember gasping at 4am, suffocating on his own spit, drowning from the inside out, tinged the same gray-blue as his eyes squinting through water at the hospice nurse as she suctioned his airway. He woke the next day to a ring of his children around his bed, aged faces laced in silence, not knowing what to say to a man that watched his wife die two weeks earlier, a spectator from three feet away. Dad, it’s ok, they spoke up, words disappearing like wind, an obligatory breeze disregarding how close he’d come to letting go. He didn’t know why they’d come or why they were blinking tears, but they were sorry his throat hurt.

I’ve been MIA. I know it. You know it too and I owe you an explanation:

I’m currently editing a poetry book that has been a couple years in the making. It’s nearing the stage of “completion,” which I put in quotations because I’m not sure I will ever be able to say I’m 100% satisfied with my writing. Poetry is a process that takes time and evolves as we grow and change. Anyway, I’m throwing myself into the collection and sadly as a result, I’ve held my breath on here.

I’m sorry!

Posts might be sparse in the upcoming weeks as I work through the editing process and enter into the nightmare that is the publishing world. I promise I will never forget you and even in the silence, I hear you.

Thank you for your patience.

–Leanne Rebecca