Tag: soul

Posted in poetry

Growing Up

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Growing Up

I should be in bed by now, but I just couldn’t sleep without writing this poem. Now that it’s done, I bid you goodnight…

–Leanne

Posted in love, poetry

Ghost Hunting

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Ghost Hunting He appeared in front of me like an apparition. I blinked for weeks, expecting the lights to stop playing tricks on my eyes, but the evidence of his existence only solidified as this spirit before me exposed its form, no longer desire’s ghost, but a corporeal truth affirmed by touch, my ear to his chest, his beat, by the pain in my cheeks, laughing from joke to joke, and by the promise that we could see the other, that it was real. —Leanne Rebecca

She’s in Prison has been my baby for 2 1/2 years, and possibly the most crucial 2 1/2 years in terms of growing up. I can look back through the archives and relive all the phases of my early 20’s. Now I enter a new phase of discovering who I am while sharing all of me with another person.

If you’ve noticed my absence on here the past couple months it’s because I’ve been doing just that: dedicating every spare moment I have to falling helplessly in love.

I hope you had a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in eyes, poetry

Eye Exam

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Eye Exam I can’t write this poem, this convoluted examination of what’s beyond the skies of my eyes and how once a year my ophthalmologist dilates the irises and looks inside at the expanse of everything hidden in their mystery. I can imagine what she sees, the complexity, the rivers and valleys of me converged in a universe of inescapable honesty, can’t hide a thing with that bright light probing my secrets, tracing the timeline of tears bled in the year since my last exam. —Leanne Rebecca

A lot can happen in a year and no matter how much we try to hide, the crux of it all lives in our eyes, the maps of our story glistening despite the cover of night, a single cast of starlight uncovering the truth.

Much Love,

Leanne

Posted in heart, poetry

A Letter to My Daughter

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A Letter to My Daughter One day you will look in the mirror and see only flaws, black smudged underneath your eyes, wisps of frizz curling around your ears, a voice too soft, unheard, a spirit too broken to scream and you will doubt your worth. It is in that moment dear child that you will crave hands to wrap your shoulders in assurance, binding fear with everlasting embrace. It is in that moment that tears will break, that an urge to smash that mirror will radiate from limb to limb and the last pearls of innocence will sever from your soul. Your sobs will soften, blinking devastation into stillness, and you will rise, turn back towards that glass and see yourself, not the flaws smudged across freckled cheeks, but the blush of a heartbeat allowing the ribs to feel, to heal, to ache with the strength of facing tomorrow. I’ll be there for you, dear child, but you’ll be there for yourself too. —Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry

This Heart that Beats

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

I wish I knew how to write myself a love letter, wish my arms could wrap around my heart, cradle the weight in my palms and breathe the electricity of the beat, feel the strum of my guitar beneath my fingers, let fly the fear held captive in unbroken tears, and trust that I am beautiful, write that I am beautiful that it doesn’t matter that he couldn’t see it and he couldn’t see it and he couldn’t see it. I love that I don’t want to pretend that I don’t miss him, heart zipped up, mended as if it had never cracked. I’m mismatched, stitched by time, how some days it disappears and others feel like years, losing moments to old emotions, the fool caught in yesterday, picking at old scabs. I wish I could forgive the girl that fell. I want to tell her that I love her and that she should never regret the size of her own heart, her capacity to admire, her courage to feel, her strength to invite him to see her art, even if he couldn’t see it, and he couldn’t see it, and he couldn’t see it. I want to write myself a love letter, sing my worth, guitar in hand and trust that I am beautiful. —Leanne Rebecca

I ran out of time today to do everything that I wanted to do. I need to remember that it doesn’t make me a failure, but that my life is full.

Tonight I’m listening to acoustic Sleeping with Sirens and Grizfolk. I want to lose myself in the lyrics like I did yesterday at Warped Tour, closing my eyes and feeling the music of each band, letting it grab hold of my soul and claim a part of me, even for just a second.

I discovered a band called Onward Etc. If there’s one thing you’ll take away from this blog post, it’s to listen to them and find your own poem in their lyrics.

Good night loves.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in life, love, poetry

The After Poem

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The After Poem I couldn’t tell if the light shinning in my room was from the sun or the street lamp camped outside my window. Time was irrelevant, days blurred together by Fireball, unsure if the sickly gnawing in my stomach was hunger or the early stages of a hangover. I rolled over and covered my head with my comforter, choosing the sweaty hotbox of blankets in the summertime over spilled light in my eyes. When I woke up again I heard my roommate talking. Morning. Another human. Still alive. I drank a glass of water and realized I felt ok. The slosh in my stomach had abated with sleep. All I’d needed was time. For the first time in two years I was ok, more than ok. Ready.

The most cathartic moment of struggle is when you realize you aren’t struggling anymore. Yesterday was my 25th birthday and today is a new beginning.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in love, poetry

Destiny

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Destiny She knew she was a poet when she let the tears break and blur the facade on her face, running black from the tip of her nose to the page below her palm. She collected all the faith she’d once put into him in an envelope and sealed it away, letting the waterfall smudge all the words she’d ever written. She knew she was a poet in that moment, the need to write her heart as crippling as the moment she met him, just a memory, a fleeting love, old journal entries filed away. He was gone, but she wrote anyway, falling over and over for her passion. She didn’t need to learn to love again, because her soul was already home.

It’s ok to cry, always. I wrote this one in the last five minutes through a waterfall on my face. I’m so thankful to have all your support on here. Means everything.

This one is for my friend Katie.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Song

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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, twenty one pilots, writing

This Heart

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This Heart She wrote her heart into a notebook, writing the beat in her secrets, infusing the lines with jagged tears, the breaks and palpitations of falling with no one to catch you. She hoped her heart would find a home in the pages, hugged by memories cast into words and stored on a shelf. But her heart refused to live only in ink, rebelling in her chest, punching at her lungs and demanding a voice more profound than poetry, screaming in severe chest pains for love.

This poem is inspired by “Before You Start Your Day” by Twenty One Pilots. It’s one of their most melancholy songs and brings me to tears just about every time I hear it. I listened to it on repeat as I wrote this poem. It requires deep introspection, allowing yourself to really feel what’s going on inside. This poem was hard to write but sometimes those are the most important ones to get out.

Sleep well, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Those Eyes

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Those Eyes The eyes in the picture smoldered in more dimensions than the photograph’s possibility, beckoning like portals to another story that danced on the other side of the visible world. She didn’t grant many people the opportunity to jump through her mysteries preferring to keep her oceans obscure, offering only flash glances, enticing them to want to know what lived beyond, to understand why she chose to not put mascara on her bottom lashes that day.

Today is my 2 year anniversary of this ol’ blog. It’s strange to go back and look and some of the old posts and remember where I was emotionally when I wrote those poems. Sometimes I’m in awe that I even wrote them. Actually, I was going through a tough time when I started She’s in Prison. My struggle was the catalyst of finding an outlet. I fear looking into that past and remembering that dark place. But, I guess that dark place inspired something pretty great. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished on here and I thank all of you so much for sticking with me through it all.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Moved

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Moved I wonder if music gets inside other people’s souls like it does mine, if it resonates as deeply, shifts their feelings, affects their physicality. I breathe vibrations of melody into my whole being, evoking memories and sentiments, implanting dreams and fantasies, living lyrics in imagined movies, crying at all the right places, gullible to the director’s verse. I become addicted to the story, listening on repeat, exhausting my ears, singing as I lose perspective on what’s real, living the performance, inventing nuances, dancing to drums, heart jolted by bass, the undercurrent that holds it all together, rounding out sound with breath. I hum the harmony, part of the choir, the life behind the necessities, so engaged in every element of the piece that I forget I’m sitting in the cafeteria at work, chewing.

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: The Village Thinker

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Guest Post by The Village Thinker

About the Author:

A a young Ghanaian student-poet, Nana Arhin Tsiwah know in poetry circles as “The Village Thinker” uses livid words to tell tales of old, of history and tradition.

More from The Village Thinker…

Want your poetry featured on She’s in Prison?

Submit a guest post!

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Visibility

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Visibility Someone must have seen me sitting there, spitting cherry seeds into a plastic baggie, shoes off, cross legged, and glistening in the thickness of St. Louis humidity. I laid down on the quilt protecting my clothes from grass stains and pulled a book from my purse. I estimated I could read about a chapter before the next band started their set. I tuned out the cacophony of intoxicated friends, the thousands of couples and families and besties camped out on the lawn of the amphitheater. I muted their chatter as if dialing down the volume in my car, driving my attention anywhere I wanted, sneaking peaks at the sky over the rim of my book, not caring how many people didn’t see me lying there, alone at a concert at peace with my own ego, so nonchalant in my solitude, that the issue of visibility floated away with every lyric and every movement and every heartbeat of freedom screamed from the silence of no one beside me.

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Protection

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Protection

“Between Your Lines” is hands down my favorite Chunk! No, Captain Chunk song, so obviously, I had to write a poem inspired by it. I wrote this one awhile ago, but the time never felt right to publish it. Today seemed to fit for some reason.

Anyway, thanks for checking out my strings of words and taking a moment out of your busy life for a poetry break. Have a great rest of your weekend!

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

In Return

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

In ReturnWhen I started She’s in Prison almost a year ago, I promised myself that I’d be transparent in my writing. I vowed to share the tough stuff, even if it hurt or I felt exposed or uncomfortable. This is one of those poems, which may be a surprise because I recognize that the message is simple. I struggled in writing it, I admit. I don’t see the point in putting up a front that I’m uber confident in each and every one of my pieces. Truth is, I’m not, which I like even better. The words you see above are inspired by emotions I’m working through in this moment and I don’t feel I’ve been able to capture them fully. But as I was listening to “I Got You” by Leona Lewis, I knew I had to try.

Come back next Sunday for more poetry inspired by songs on my playlist. Also, don’t forget to hit the follow button on the left and hit me up on Twitter too!