Tag: writing

Posted in poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Song

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 love, poetry, writing

Integrity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

She succumbed to influence, forgetting to trust her heart, realizing she’d never trusted her heart, not with as much zeal as it deserved. She let them tell her how her heart should beat, how many clicks in a minute it should feel, which minutes deserved her soul and which she needed to let go. They told her when her heart was wrong and when her heart was weak and she believed them and tried to reshape its lines. One day, after all the breaks her veins twisted in knots, confused, she realized she’d lost her beat, breathing someone else’s thinking. In that moment, she was free to fall, but with integrity, to fall poetically, trusting she’d fly.

I’m no stranger to crying. I cry during ASPCA commercials. I cried at the end of the newest Cinderella movie. I cry when they name the winner of The Voice. Rarely, however, does poetry make me cry. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.

I usually write poetry as a response to crying whereas few poems have truly moved me to tears. Today as I was sitting at my desk, listening to Pandora like any other Monday at the office, Tom Petty’s song Free Fallin came on and I needed to write this poem, didn’t have a choice.

I reread what I wrote, and suddenly, my throat started tightening. Something about this poem makes me cry, even as I look at it now. I guess it’s because this poem is my heart.

–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, poetry, writing

My Corner

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

My Corner I microwaved leftover frozen pizza for breakfast. It was all I could do, sit by myself in this chair in the corner eat the damn soggy pizza and try to not think about last night.

Poetry can be whatever you want it to be.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in confidence, poetry, story

Still Looking

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Still Looking I wanted to find the perfect poem that captured the library in my head, my story inked in proof that I’m not unique. I didn’t fit in any of the verses, marking my world into their margins, their words not quite what I needed to read. I asked existentially if anyone understood, if they could help me understand this aimless search to feel grounded in someone else.

I’ve been obsessed with reading poetry lately, scouring the internet for hidden gems, loving the surge of available verse with National Poetry Month in full swing. I’ve found some good stuff, but haven’t yet found one that really hits me. I want to be brought to tears. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Flutter

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Flutter She’d grown addicted to disintegrating, disappearing in bits like a withering sand castle, eroding away until someone would come along and pack her back together, subsisting in transience, never at peace with integrity, a master at sabotaging her own strength, artful almost, fluttering into pieces with the grace of fluidity, falling again and again in perfect rhythm.

It feels like it’s been awhile since I’ve been on here. Every time I’ve tried to write a poem in the last several days I end up cranking out about 2 lines and then “finishing” the poem with several words of profanity before closing my notebook and filling up a glass of wine. There isn’t more to the story. Writing is rarely glamorous.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, love, my life, poetry

Insanity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Chance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Chance She convinced him with one look to take a chance on her lips, a sideways glance entrancing hands to wrap around waists and necks, to slip out of the strobe lights and into dark corners. He wrapped his attention around her mystery, a girl so soft-spoken she almost blended into the wall paint, emerging from invisibility, catching the corner of his eye, her downturned lashes faltering his control. He needed to know her. She fed on his intrigue, a vampire preying on his intoxication, his involuntary lust to touch, falling trap to her game, her mastery of magnetism. But he was just a number, a nameless mannequin to satisfy a night’s play, a symbol of her fear to take a chance on love.

I just moved into a new apartment. I feel like I’m starting a new life, starting over, taking ownership of the aspects of my life I didn’t own before. I asked my roommate tonight what her advice to you all would be if she could impart one piece of wisdom. By happenstance, she said “take a chance.”

Beautiful.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Storm

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Storm I remember the fear I used to feel when the sky would turn green, huddling under a blanket as hail rained, my parents watching the local news as nighttime ravaged the afternoon sun. It’s the same fear I feel now, exposed to a vastness outside my window, that even though my parents love me, the Midwestern storm still has the upper hand. I concede vulnerability to the elements— the ferocity of darkness, the wind raping my cheeks, eyes spilling gallons of anxiety, waking in ruble with splinters in my feet, crippled in unending fear. I’m not hiding under a blanket anymore. I’m standing in the rain accepting the challenge, knowing the torrent will pass, and the sky will illuminate again tomorrow. I am still afraid, but I face east with alacrity.

I’m often asked where I find my inspiration. Most of the time it’s random, like the color of my hot tea or hearing a song playing at the grocery store, but sometimes I seek out inspiration too. On Thursday I asked a handful of my friends what their favorite word was that day. I didn’t explain why I was asking, which netted me some pretty interesting responses, like burrito or sandwich. One of my friends even made up a word.

There were a few answers however that stuck out: storm, alacrity, and illuminate. The strength behind these words is consuming and even more intriguing are the reasons that my friends chose these. I initially intended to write a separate poem for each word, but then I realized how interconnected they could be, which again, is a pretty powerful discovery.

This poem is dedicated to my friends Kelsey, Charlie, and Cameron.

What is your favorite word today?

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Unicorn

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Unicorn You were a figment of daydream, all the quirks and intricacies of my little girl fantasies manifested in reality. Charmed, I fell, against better judgment, stumbling as though intoxicated under spell, blinded by the pixie dust twinkling around your head. I should have known I was imagining you in that moment, hallucinating, because after I wiped the dust from my eyes, I saw you weren’t perfect after all.

Listen to All Time Low. That’s my only advice for the day.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poem, writing

Always My Favorite Jeans

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Always My Favorite Jeans I tucked your heart into my pocket for hushed safe keeping, to carry with me every time I wear these jeans. And when the day comes that these jeans are folded in a drawer, when I’m ready to brave the day with a different look, collecting the beats of someone else's heart in the back pocket of new jeans, I promise I’ll still carry you with me. Maybe not in my pocket, so accessible. But in the nostalgia of all the times I danced in those jeans, in all the rips and stains of forever love.

Sometimes I write sappy poems. This is one of them. I loved every single second of milking every line for all the cheese I could muster. I wish you all the merriest of Monday nights.

Sleep well, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Scars

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Scars It’s been enough years that the emotions have died in time. I remember the day like I would a news story— facts blocked in a reel, a non-biased documentary framing a girl and her brush with death, her fear and loss of childhood. I grew up in acceptance of new routine, ignoring diminished dignity moving past the stages of self-pity, and learned not to question misfortune. No one would know the stories behind these scars, would know about the scars at all, scars hidden under t-shirts, the only evidence I’m slightly broken.

I write about this once a year and once a year only. Fourteen years ago today I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I remember that day in chunks: when my pediatrician told us to drive to the hospital, when the nurse weighed me and commented that I was skin and bones, when I had to pee so badly as they were admitting me that I almost went in my pants, the first shot they gave me, the first shot I gave myself, sobbing in my mom’s arms in my dark hospital room, convinced that I’d never be able to eat pizza again.

Type 1 diabetes isn’t one of those diseases that people know you have. Aside from insulin pumps and hordes of empty juice boxes, we’re undetectable. I don’t hide my condition, but I don’t bring it up either. It’s a part of me now, locked into every moment of every day, burned into my routine, into my history, and into my future.

This is my confessional. Sometimes I’m still embarrassed to bring out my insulin pump at the dinner table, even with my closest friends. It’s been fourteen years and I still struggle with dosing food correctly. I don’t like to admit when I don’t feel well and I cancel doctor’s appointments when I’ve had trouble controlling my blood sugars just so my doctor won’t find out that I’m “failing” at being a good diabetic.

I’m not shy about my disease. I always welcome conversation and questions and will share my stories to anyone that cares to ask. It’s a strange dichotomy: being an open book that’s shoved inside a backpack.

Thanks for listening to my D-Day story. I guarantee next March 26th will reveal another chapter.

-Leanne Rebecca

I

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Irrational

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Irrational I sat inverted into introspection, ankles wrapped in tension, and focused on my insides, trying to perceive the sensations of the organs, convinced like a hypochondriac that I could feel something there. Fear imploded into my chest as if my heart had turned to lead, heavy with emotions that didn’t need to exist yet, or at all. I couldn’t feel the ground when I stood.

None of us can keep it together 100% of the time, especially when we’re afraid. We eventually learn that it’s ok to fall apart. We become pros at putting the pieces back together, so good in fact that most people around us wouldn’t know we were struggling unless we wrote a poem about it and put it on the internet.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Circle

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The Circle I look out for you with more composure than myself, bleeding your wounds between my own. You fall. I fall. I cradle you in my circle, heart fused to yours, sensing the falters of your beats in the contract of loyalty. It’s written in trust and sealed in faith, a promise more binding than love: Once you’re in the circle, I won’t let you leave.

This one is dedicated to my friends. I read an article yesterday talking about the differences between introverted and extroverted people. I fall right in the middle of both, equally outgoing as an extrovert and equally introspective as an introvert. What that basically boils down to is that relationships mean the world to me. I care for the people in my world with an almost unhealthy level of intensity. Annoying as it may be, they always know I have their back.

Have a great Sunday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Competition

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Competition She learned the hard way that hearts aren’t for winning, that we can fight like wild animals for the eyes of our desire’s prey, but even the fastest of cheetahs and the bravest of lions and the determined of wolves can’t rearrange evolution’s chain. Some ducks aren’t destined to fly.

Our hearts are our own to hold and our own to love. One of my good friends made the point a few days ago that 99% of all our romantic relationships will fail until one day it doesn’t. Through it all, we must always remember to love ourselves no matter how hopeless we may become at times, no matter how much we feel like the ugly duckling that no one wants.

Have fun this weekend lovies!

–Leanne Rebecca