Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

Tricked	  The room dimmed with the sunset, the space that hours before had been filled with conversation— friends drinking champagne, investing fractions of their lives in sharing time— now faded into shadow, the imprint of connection dying  as we drifted back to segregation, alone in introspection’s isolation as if the party had never happened, as if he’d never talked to me, as if they’d never met, as if our imaginations tricked us into believing loneliness isn’t a chronic disease.   —Leanne Rebecca

There’s something about the close of the weekend that requires epic introspection. Now is the time, when everyone is winding down and setting their Monday morning alarm clocks, to take a few moments and reflect on what’s running most prominently through your brain.

Sometimes I struggle with these hours of solitude, feeling lost in their isolation, afraid of the silence. Other times I welcome the freedom. Tonight I feel both with equal weight.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

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Posted in art, poetry, writing

Solo Dining

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

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

Almost

Almost  The day before Thanksgiving— department store shopping— orange and red and green and gold— trees of candy gift sets— sales associates handing out perfume samples— a scream— the grating of the escalator— an 8 year old boy laying across the handrail, clinging— two women prying his body from over the edge— the pause of breathing— the kid enveloped in arms— my mother’s tears as she stood.

Today is the day that Facebook feeds are cluttered with lists. We pick out five or six things we’re thankful for like family, friends, food, faith, etc. I’m not going to do that here. While I am thankful for my parents and my cat and my guitar and my favorite restaurant, today I want to reflect on something a little different.

Lately I’ve been working on loving myself and loving my own company, finding happiness in times of solitude. I went through a period where I lost my admiration for myself and so today, on Thanksgiving, I am thankful for me. I’m thankful for my strength to fight. I’m thankful for my individuality and my love for writing. I’m thankful that I know exactly who I am and I’m thankful that I love her. I am thankful that I am alive.

I pray that you never lose sight of yourself.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

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

Quiet

Quiet  It’s the stillness that scares me, when time collects in a jar and thoughts settle like dust, caking every blink, every swallow, every breath with extra weight, a heaviness that enslaves the body like an anchor strapped to an ankle, chained, trapped ruminating in one room inside the mind, consumed by the freedom to think, suffocating in the privilege of thought, the torture hidden in the violence of quiet.

The last couple days have been action packed. For one, it was my birthday on Thursday. Secondly, I went on my first business trip. In other words, I grew up a little in the past 48 hours. I like keeping myself busy because it allows for optimum productivity and fun, sticking by the cliche of living every day like it’s my last. But every once and awhile I’m forced into solitude–the three hours I hung out in the airport yesterday and the subsequent three hours on the plane. It’s those moments, when I’m by myself, that the world feels big , and I’m invisible, just an ant in the crowd. Sure, quiet can feel calming at times, like when I curl up with a notebook and spill my feelings, but that’s the kind of quiescence I choose, the kind of quiet that begs for reflection. I wish I could remember to savor that sensation of stillness and learn to live devoid of loneliness. My company should be enough.

This one’s inspired by “Car Radio” by Twenty One Pilots. Quiet is violent.

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

Be Concerned

Be ConcernedThis week I’ve favored the word “melancholy,” not quite feeling sad, not quite feeling happy, not quite sure what I want, conflicted, comfortable, and on edge all at the same time. This melancholy state has allowed me to take a few moments of introspection and reflect upon my goals, my hopes, and my confidence. Hearing the Twenty One Pilots song “Be Concerned” this morning, I felt drawn to the dichotomy of the music: the sense of purity that contrasts with the raw verse of the rap. I listened a couple times, and then before even perceiving that I’d picked up a pen, I’d written a poem.

Thanks for stopping by. If you have a second, check out the archives of all my Twenty One Pilots inspired poetry and give a listen to their music below. Also, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. What are you feeling conflicted about right now?

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

A Car, A Torch, A Death

A Car, A Torch, A DeathNow’s the moment when I admit weakness…

I’ve failed to post my regular Saturday series for weeks. I have no excuse, except to say I’m human and anything but perfect. But it’s the new year and time to get back on track.

So, per my usually usual Saturday series, I give you a poem inspired by the title of a Twenty One Pilots’ song. Find the archives of all my TOP titled poetry under my featured tab and as always, give a listen to the band that’s held my hand with interlocked fingers for all of 2013 below.