Posted in poetry, twenty one pilots, writing


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 art, poetry, writing

Too Much

Too Much  They call it Pain Tolerance, measured in a threshold determined by the wearer, a number of fingers you can withstand before two hands shortfall the scale,  a 10 spectrum limit that fails to consider all the categories of this feeling’s complexity.  Am I at a 9 because I’m still breathing?  There’s a numbness beyond comprehension that confuses the brink of my endurance, as if the ache resides in negative space. an inverted sensation, the vast white surrounding the ink blotches  that could explain this intoxication. I changed the last word of this poem at least 6 times, and with each revision, I found new meaning inside my own lines. I implore you to take away your own interpretation. Sure, I wrote the poem, but the meaning is not absolute. What it means to you is just as significant as the reason I wrote it. I write poetry for me, but you read it for you. We’re equals in this process.

Happy Monday!!

–Leanne Rebecca