Welcome to the Official Blogspot for Leigh Ann DiDomenico, MA aka ANNHGIEL!!

Welcome to the Official Blogspot for Leigh Ann DiDomenico, MA aka ANNHGIEL!!
"The Angel with the Crooked Halo"


Leigh Ann is multi-talented creative freelance professional. She specializes in performance poetry, hosting, modeling, acting, and mixed media visual art. Leigh Ann is a COMMERCIAL, BEAUTY, and PETITE FASHION MODEL and ACTRESS and is available for PAID PRINT, TV, and FILM shoots. Will gladly TRAVEL (expenses paid) for work! Leigh Ann is also a nationally ranked SLAM POET, placing 3rd in the nation and 2nd in the west coast region, and is available to FEATURE at theatres, slams, open mics, and on the radio. She is also a published AUTHOR and an ARTIST who creates and sells unique one-of-a-kind furniture and home decor. Leigh Ann's artwork, ANNHGIEL DESIGNS, can be purchased at 4th Ave by the Tracks in Kalispell, MT, as well as custom ordered. Finally, Leigh Ann has her MASTERS DEGREE in Psychology and is an experienced COUNSELOR, TUTOR, and YOUTH MENTOR.


Please feel free to for booking!! Thank you!!

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Poem: Pussy

The intricate delicate

Gateway of creation.

Recently tired of the three am
Ring ring,
'Hey baby, Wanna come pick me up?'
And men using me for sex, calling ourselves 'friends'
I became tired of being seen as just
A pussy.

When I was 20 years old...
Haunted every time I pulled up my warm sheets and closed my eyes to sleep
With invasive images
Of my five year old sheets being coldly taken off of me,
Held down in bed and raped...
I used to start fights with every cat-callin car drivin by,
Immediately reminded
That I was just
A pussy
A cute petite chick to stick their dick in

My first poem book had the word 'PUSSY'
Large black letters on a white background, taped to the cover
This was to remind me of what I didn't want to be and motivate me to spit poetry

See, Pussy is what we call ourselves when we mean weak,
When we mean cowardly,
When we mean- something to be ashamed of

But how could something so desired be so hated and so abused?
How could something so powerful be so beaten and so bruised, used?

See this myth of creation we've been brainwashed to believe in
Tells us that
Came from him
Was made specially for him,
A toy
For him to play with, have his way with
But if we're really made in the image of our Creator,
Then it's clear to me that

God is Goddess
The Creatrice
And that
Came from


See if the chicken came first and the eggs from inside her
And if life grows enfolded in her soft dark warmth for nine months
Preparing us for birth,
Then in whose
Fucked up backward garden could
She have possibly came from his cracked rib?

Crack one for me.
Make a baby.

See it's not men who spread their seed,
But fertilize the seeds
Already planted inside her from birth.

The creative force of the universe is female.

Always understood to be such until
There was a deliberate attack on the religions of the Goddess.
No one mentioned those ‘idols’ they were told to smash
From those ‘heathen’ religions
Had breasts.

in the Judeo-Christian tradition,
Purity Laws, and
Came at the same time.

Marriage began to track the father line.
Prior to this our family tree was female.
Every strand
In the web of life it's roots created
Was red,
Connected by menstrual blood.
Doesn't come from a
The blood that nourishes babies,
This blood
Was considered sacred.
This was before the Purity Laws
Which deemed menstruating women
"Dirty" and
And made it a sin
To touch
A woman while she was bleeding,
When before
It was a
To fuck her while she was bleeding.
But the power of her blood was not yet forgotten,
Which is why they created
To mimic menstruation by creating blood on the head of a penis.

But we're not taught this.

See our roots are female.
And our fruit is female.
And every child up to three months in the womb is


That's why they twisted the myth.

Told us Eve was the downfall of Adam
Gave us the illusion that the abundant Earth surrounding us
Isn't a garden...?
Created a
From Our Mother Earth
And the Divine Feminine
So our power
Could be controlled.

Divide and conquer.

I wonder
If Our Mother is suffering from empty nest syndrome...
Lovingly pushed us out of her nest
So we could find our wings
Which she knows she can't flap for us,
Does She miss us?
Thunderstorm tears for us
And hurricane our pain

Does she wait,
Her children

Sought after

We birth
We suffer
We break
And we survive

So call me a pussy.

In fact, I think I'll write the word
On my new poem book

To remind me
To be proud
To be seen as


Copyright Leigh Ann "Annhgiel" DiDomenico

All Rights Reserved
This poem, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Please contact: lada.04@alumni.lehigh.edu for authorization for credited use.

Friday, June 26, 2009


"Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how.  The moment you know how you begin to die a little.  The artist never entirely knows.  We guess.  We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark." -Agnes de Mille