Tag: silence

Posted in introspection, poetry, writing

One Morning

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

One Morning I found the real poem in the silence, the moment between songs that sits in the lungs like held breath. I could write about the shape of the clouds, the gray cascading over the awakened sun as I drove to work that morning. Could write about the internal reaction to the scene, the music speaking to me, me singing, the release at the final beat. But I don’t need to write it; analyze the living of it with overwrought introspection, forcing words to rehash something no one else witnessed. Instead, I move on. —Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, identity, poetry

Angry Poem

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Angry Poem I fought until I was the fool, until every word I said compounded insignificance, tacking on weightless syllables that fizzled into nothing as if I hadn’t said a thing at all, a person without a voice, not a person at all. For a moment I let the silence stick, crushed by insecurity as if speaking would reveal weakness, repulsed by my thoughts, my impulses, my actions, letting it all get to me regretting my voice regretting me. But something felt wrong to write about deficits, to strip away the intention of all those things I said, to say the meaning meant nothing. Those words mattered, fucking mattered, because I matter.

Don’t ever let someone make you feel like you don’t have a voice or that your voice has no weight. Be heard. Be yourself and be heard.

I love you guys.

–Leanne Rebecca

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 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, love, my life, poetry

Insanity

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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

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, poetry, writing

Should

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Should The TV signal died. I spend the next twenty minutes pressing a button off and on to spark a response. Off and on because there should be stimulus. I should do what I can to expel the silence of a blue screen and error message because I can’t be here in the quiet should be moving in some direction mind should be engaged in something, can’t waste this time on doing nothing. I press the button off and on, squatting in front of a box, expecting a different result and the damn receiver won’t listen to me. I’m here, trying, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I should try again.

Last week was rough. Here’s a hint…don’t catch stomach bugs. Luckily, I like to think of Sundays as the day to start anew. I survived Hell and now is my opportunity to bounce back. Good thing the TV lost its signal, because now I can say I started the new week with a poem.

There’s still time to accomplish something wonderful before Monday rolls around, folks. It’s up to you to figure out what it’s going to be.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Under the Influence

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Under the Influence I wept her poems from my eyes ink mixing with freckles wandering the hollows of emotion sewn in the simplicity of her voice. I read them again cross legged as still as silence steeping tea turned bitter. Nothing made sense anymore the eruption of water the knots in my shoulders the unmoving air the last page of a masterpiece, finished, the anticipation of change the waking up the next morning in the same position I fell asleep.

This poem came out of nowhere. I was taking a walk, imagining stories in my head, and it just hit me in the face.

One of my friends lent me Ararat by Louise Gluck last week and I think it changed my life. Everything looks the same from the outside–same job, same breakfast foods–but something’s different, even if I can’t articulate exactly what that means.

I don’t usually publish poems at night. Sweet dreams and thanks for reading.

–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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Freak

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Freak You don’t know about the paranoia nestled in my fingernails. I pick at my cuticles to get at it, peeling through to the blood vessels beneath. I haven’t heard from you in three days and the skin around my nails looks like an active volcano, lava crusting against cracked rock. I fear that you forgot me. I clench my fists in desperation, to quiet the obsession, the need to be needed. I concede to speak against your silence. My hands cramp in the waiting. I succumb to insecurity— the translucence of my ghost white complexion, that you don’t see enough of me to remember my presence. I rip at flesh with my teeth, the taste of blood staining my tongue. I measure my worth in your wants, a bad habit.

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry

Making Sense of It.

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Making Sense of It. A sheet divides the ramblings of my desires and the secrets beneath his ribs. I see the shadows of his hungers through the fabric, obscured intentions taunting when the light hits. Neither of us speak, playing the game, pursuing, hunting, manipulating. I only know what I feel.

This one may not be about what you think it is. Just consider it.

Have a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Sensitivity

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Sensitivity The skin on my fingers is peeling, stressed by the newness of strings beneath. I misstep, stumbling in misjudgment, too far, a sour sound. The distraction cracks the exercise of muscle memory, fumbling through overthinking I know I said all the wrong things, deafened in the aftermath of mistakes, a ringing of dull notes and your silence. The calluses flake off my fingertips, daring raw flesh to try again. But it hurts.

My inner poet disappeared for a few days. She hasn’t been that quiet for that long in quite some time. She’d like to say hello again and thanks you for listening.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Speechless

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Speechless My wit atrophies into a freshly erased chalkboard, smeared with dust, remnants of brain activity dragged into a blur. I listen to what you say but cannot speak in return. I taste the chalk of words caked in my closed mouth, too dry to write them with sound. By the time I find a pen to transcribe my silence, you’ve left. I hit repeat on the same song 9 times while working on this post last night. Every play hit me harder than the last, a compounding obsession culminated in the fact that I’m talking about it right now. Maybe it means something and maybe it doesn’t. All I know is that today is Friday.

Sometimes I talk about the days of the week because I don’t know what else to say but most of the time I talk about the days of the week because their existence seems just as important as anything else. Wow, it’s Friday. Find a song you love and listen to it 9 times in a row.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Pause

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Pause I expected I’d hear silence, as if the meditation of a moment would quiet the Muzak of being people. I listened to the space between breaths and heard the clutter of coffee shop conversation, the footsteps of that boy in the backwards cap when he walked by, the scooting of a chair. I heard my thoughts, a raucous of angst amassed in pictures and imagined flashbacks, a confused slide show of my participation in this room dotted with strangers. I listened for a second and heard the screams of my closed mouth. I don’t often distinguish between my poems that are based on real experience or straight up fiction. However, I feel compelled to admit that this one is utterly non-fiction. I treated myself to a tea at this great coffee shop that’s quickly becoming my go-to place for a cup-o-joe, and the next thing I knew I’d written this poem.

Cheers to Picasso’s in good ol’ St. Charles and cheers to Wednesdays.

–Leanne Rebecca

 

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

From Generation

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

From Generation What would his mother say, him leaving the table without excusing himself as if we didn’t exist, as if we hadn’t driven here together as if he’d rather be watching TV than exchanging words with people he once said he loves? His back staggered our conversation like a child screaming in obstinance to social responsibility, deafening fits interrupting the ease of good company like spilled coffee on white pants, regretable combinations. She wouldn’t say a thing.Sunday morning coffee is one of my favorite things. It’s the poetry of a survived Saturday night. It’s the pause of appreciation for the privilege of indulgence. Most of all, it’s just delicious. I hope you were enjoying a cup of coffee while reading this. After all, poetry and coffee are bred to coexist. Cheers to the week ahead!

–Leanne Rebecca