Posted in art, poetry, writing


Tragedy  Morning traffic dictated a lethargic pace. I tailgated the car in front of me as if burning grill marks on his bumper  would increase the speed of moving, could decrease my anxiety— would I make it to work on time?  I veered onto the exit ramp at the first opportunity, crossing a bit of the solid white, zipping around the line stopped on the highway, the other 9-5ers blinking at their windshields, sleepwalkers guzzling coffee and eating granola bars.  The ramp was clear, a straight shot of open road to fly without impasse in the freedom of ignoring speed suggestions. I noticed something to my right  before I hit the intersection: a dead deer, frozen and whole like a stuffed replica. I looked away to my left. Three black trash bags lined the shoulder.Sometimes routine can blind us from what’s happening around us, good or bad. Don’t forget to open your eyes. Write a poem about it if you can.

Happy Thursday!

–Leanne Rebecca


Posted in art, poetry, writing


Glimpse  Sometimes I forget that the sounds are audible because I can’t hear myself. The music’s too loud in my earbuds.  I wonder if the headlights coming towards me  reflect the glass coating my eyes,   even though it’s dark. Would that man walking on the other side of the street notice If I collapsed?  My hands shake with the violence of my breath, unable to find pause in the measure of worth.  Can you hear me choking on silence, coughing with the helplessness of an asthmatic? Do you care?

This weekend was rough. As such, I’ve decided to take a little She’s in Prison vacation, just for a week. Isn’t there a saying of some kind about having too much of a good thing anyway…?

Have a great week and check back in 7 days for fresh schtuff. 🙂

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


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.