Afternoon siesta, weather moody, growling, sweet, curl into covers, tucked in, slowly drifting off, as common though as beautiful as the morning mist. Muscles so relaxed they might ooze off bones tender and supple, anonymity in the dreamy fields, a fervent chase begins, of your placating love, still worthy. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
Contemplate ahead of the moment where precious jewels sparkle upon fingers of mad yet calculated women, where even madder men will fight to keep them happy but with their demands, ongoing, complaints, eternal sufferings, maddest men’s eyes look elsewhere, for new hands to bear, new hearts to win over. The bejewelled, once beguiling women, tap tap tap their manicured nails upon the sink, waiting for their husbands to return late from work, his inevitable sigh to engulf the room, of his own self-proclaimed suffering, and roll in he does, scented by the faintest lingering perfume, she turns her face away, hurt, as though slapped but nothing’s said or done. She will pretend she doesn’t notice, this time, and the next, because out of the slightest guilt borne from his activities, he purchases her more jewels, more gold, then an increase of her credit limit, and she supposes this is all she deserves, if she were to leave him, she’d have far less, in comparison it’d seem as though nothing, so, gritting her teeth she smiles when receiving the shut-up prizes. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
rigid too stiff, too tight, too inflexible, is that life’s intention? a formal suit, paired with a starched white collar, perfectly suitable for a living fool, breathing superiority and dominance but here: a softer gown, lavender blue, fit for a lady an arm to caress and know of, to hold. dare the suit be worn with little thought? portray an image of undertaking and undertaken all at once? speaking of a world dragging down the masked who fight to keep flagrant pretence alive while hooded? or will the lady soften the scene, with her flowing georgette dress, and perfection set against its tight seams? stiff or gentle, who will bless? rigid or supple, who will you choose? roles in life to assign and defy accompanied by a decision possibly divine. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
I love the scent which surrounds you, your aura glows with meaning, permeating your outer shell with reinforced support, reassurance and kindness. You can try to fix my problems and aid my floaty, fanciful dreams but you know that this is not the right method for me. You take my brokenness and allow it to be a beautiful view, though still in pieces, you understand it’s my role to rearrange myself into something more positive, useful, that to allow transmutation through your hands would be wrong, it is for me to wield the vision here, hold me close as I once more transform, I love the scent when you hold me in your arms. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
Teeming with truth is the garden pond beneath me, little goldfishes and ginormous catfish sharing the same muck, and breathing the same strangling air. There is no poisoning permitted within their world, no time for man-made deaths, perilously cold, creations of old. They have this amazing ability of not bumping into one another, as though they understand the nature of truth-transportation, within their minds, within their scales, there lay the makings of something frantic yet strangely calming. I unwind myself and my stress around the edges here, simply speaking, as naked as marked by my worldly arrival, I bear the tidings of youth and the addled nature of age, paperweights upon my important documentation, leafing through the pitfalls and milestones, such a young age I was when it began, much mental anguish to have unravelled. These documents are meant to reflect the truth but they speak of others’ interpretations, naught of my own cacophony and musings, I am wound and wound by their looping, their incoherent inked ramblings, their medical terminology to describe how I am presenting. Nonsense! I am not a category three or five anything. I am more like a butterfly in that storm, where I gracefully flit to flit to dream to dream, and explore the deft nature of mental health and their well-versed world, explanation upon explanation of what I am, what illness I have become because, that’s just it, labels weigh down, they laden. A butterfly finds little comfort in human inscribed notes and details, instead, she takes delight in soaring, higher and higher, taking that particular note with her, and then, with a release of her limbs, the letter flutters down, further, and further, until no one knows where it went. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
When I am slighted, I can become cruel. My words spit forth with venom; I cannot help my purging. It is as though I need to get them out, in order to stop the poison taking effect upon myself, my soul, and in doing so I hurt others by means of my cathartic process. Afterwards I should feel remorseful, but, not yet, not yet, a lone raven calls, not yet, my dear, we have to await The Fall. What is The Fall, you may ask? Let me explain simply, The Fall is when everything culminates and crumbles from a formidable boulder into shattered, tiny pieces, the strong once broken, forming mere pebbles settling into dust clouds, which really are unsettling. My exterior, strong and generally kind, now turned cold as of recent times, has been dismembered into gravelly limbs and such that really, didn’t need any adjustment at all. I had pooled my energies and forced myself into intensely focusing on one or two tasks alone, and in doing so, my stresses had increased tenfold. And the way I perceived being treated or mistreated really spoke volumes to my self-harassed being. I convinced myself that I was the most obvious victim. So, essentially speaking, The Fall is when one falls apart. Strictly speaking, symptoms are as such, when I rock the boat slightly, testing the waters, then finding it fine, I start pressing back and forth violently, making certain I am causing a commotion, then suddenly the boat keels over and the only air pocket is the oxygen underneath the boat. I must breathe into this prison, For without breath there is no hope. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
I urge myself to persevere. It is the only possible route to take. Of course, wallowing and huddling in bed is an option, but it’s not one I would readily like to select. One can only indulge in so much melancholy and shutting oneself off from the world until enough is enough. It’s time to get up, get out, speak loudly, with sumptuous sounds and absorb all that life is offering. And once out of bed, dressed and ready to exit my home – alone, mind you, I am rarely alone – and I take the first step outside that I’ve made in days. I’ve been holed up inside the house writing poem upon frustrated poem, with vicious words and synergies, and little positive to say. But now, outside, the wind rushes around my face and my body, whipping my shoulder length hair that’s been begging for a cut for weeks, perhaps even months. I take in the sumptuous feeling, it’s as though I’m in the eye of the storm and I am the axis around which everything of this wind’s rich tone colours are centring. I throw my arms outward with abandon — who knew such a feeling was awaiting me? The power of Nature’s amazing force, right here before, behind, all around me. And I feel as though I’m being cleansed, vacuumed away of the negativity, the solid space that wreaked my interior for the last durations, times which I cannot take back. Only can I learn from them. Playful now becomes the mood, and I laughingly pronounce an rrr, rrr, rrr, to try my voice again. My imagination presents me a playful slick seal begging to be rubbed on his belly or his back, his whiskers tickling my cheeks as, in my mind, I give him a big kiss upon his face. He does not turn away, he pokes out his tongue instead, and joins in with the Rrrrrrr’s of being pleased in the moment, and finally I realise I’ve done it, with this wind, with this amazingly fresh gusting breeze, with my odd imagination, I am cleansed and revitalised once more, no need for aggressive expressions, no need, anymore. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
She ran though my dreams last night, footsteps slightly off kilter, her gown dragging with the airs of freshly bought freedom, I smile to myself, she is precious. She is fleeing but that won’t stop them. The twisted cavalry usually searches for cadavers lying on the cold morgue’s tongues, a desire to appear as the darkened souls that they are, but this time they are seeking the living – it is at the request of another, it is in their best interests she will remain untouched. They finally spot her, she is tangled with the trees, their fiercely hungry arms catching onto the very gown which promised her freedom. I feel the tip and turn as she disorientates, her world soars and then slams into a hessian sack, a perfect place for inedible green sprouting potatoes, she is transported, to her meeting place of judgement. An almighty bellowing, I shudder during the rage, what is going to happen to the little girl, a woman made adolescent in her thinking, an undeveloped level of maturity. She was halted, marred by illness, her mind stunted during precious formative years, so, we cannot blame her, of life and suggestion we can only recommend. Remove her! the cavalry are instructed, bring her to my nose! And, they do so, because they know that with this giant his desires must never be ignored or overthrown, and here he observes her with keen interest as she stands, miniscule on his open palm, shuddering and quietly whimpering, like an anxious puppy on edge, she somehow knows she must fight to keep quiet. He roughly strokes her head with a heavily ridged fingertip, within his eyes is pleasure, he must learn her, then discard her, learn every piece of her, take advantage of the moment, then keep her for only long enough that others will know of her absence. Then return, return, to my fleeting dreams, to catch upon something else, and remain forever lost, never to return home, it seems. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
A distinguished yew tree silently stands before me, speaking of regeneration and rebirth and all that is everlasting, within my heart it resides, while monumental, it is a temporary fixture, nonetheless an awe-inspiring picture. Who planted this reminder for me, to never give up? A sign that, during times of impassioned illness and ill choices there is still hope? The yew promises me time will continue on, and there will always be that turning point known as Hope. My mind aches at the thought of beings once in my world, who, in their dilapidated state could not draw themselves away from the saddening muck that stills their lives, some remain happy to exist in their quagmire, they feel their current situation is something to treasure. There is no sign of a yew for them to never give up, any hope for advancement has sadly been pinned down. Talk of hopes and dreams is dismissively cast aside, too difficult, too unattainable, unmanageable, by their own reasoning. I want to show them my yew. I wish to inspire them, too. Had I remained sunken in my mud pit, I may have drowned like the rest of them, a reflection into an ability of an awful mentality, dark times, though infrequent, featured, clouded heavily. Now, my tree becomes a home for my thoughts, within its leaves and branches I bury my phrases, my toiled words, my loose metaphors, because maybe at a later point, they’ll come in handy, or at least perhaps they’ll remain as personal pictures, destined to become tidy and used mindfully. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved. Image by Ilona Ilyés from Pixabay
Depression hits my aura like a stoning I crumble beneath the view fetal-like shell-shocked I’m trying but my best is never good enough seemingly humoured toward the end. Your life is different to mine, and while I am thankful for some memories I want to curl tighter and tighter, keep you away I’d be lying if I said you entirely caused the hurting. When it came time, I felt no cord being severed it had already vanished from existence, entangled lines once wound like vintage telephone cords neatly arranged in little camps of yours and mine. And while I can comfort myself with bitter feelings of how I was so hard done by and mistreated for the most part it’s tiresome mind-trickery nonsense only truly applicable to when the gradual silence decided to speak. And it haunts, it haunted, billowing in the chambers of my mind, when I recall times when our hearts were perfectly entwined, but letting go of each other, we both really didn’t seem to mind. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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