Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: January 2020

  • Poem: Darling, Am I Too Much? – 14/01/20

    Poem: Darling, Am I Too Much? – 14/01/20

    My darling,
is it too much that I speak?
Are my vowels out of turn, yowling into paining ear drums?
My articulated consonants taut at the edge of profanity,
is it too much, too much,
too much so, that I speak?
 
Best I jot thoughts down then, with an infernal rage,
cast them aside,
or scribbled or scrawled out of existence,
or ripped to shreds, like a tiger
I know how to decimate,
it has been bred within me,
I know my claws will take.
 
My filter barely sits at the base of my spine,
where, like at the hands of a maniacal chiropractor,
I’ve been manipulated after much time,
and the emotions, they shoot up with
an impermanence that I cannot bear to control,
the scars left behind by the bubbling brew of sharply bit dialogue
promises and lies
enrage me more,
stitch me up further,
I vow to you:
I will no longer suffer.
 
I will talk out of turn,
I will continue to voice truthful opinions,
my internal wefts, no matter how light or sooty they present,
I will curl my fingernails into my palm just to feel the pain,
to remember who I am,
to wake up,
to be on par with who I’m trying to be,
who I am.
 
My darling,
I am so sorry that I spoke out of turn,
permit me to begrudge myself of any relevance,
I wasn’t entirely aware that such a timely shift had occurred.
 
Perhaps you will hear me as a voice,
when you lay your head down to rest,
wishing to dream of a land of perfection and love and
forward momentum,
when I know convoluted nightmares are the trappings
behind eyes that failed to prize the signs of my moving forward
and making my life more adapted to my dreams.
 
I’m not sorry at all,
because I was cut off at the seams.  
  
© 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 Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Privy – 14/01/20

    Poem: Privy – 14/01/20

    Are you privy to the facts which surround? Those which carefully guard the keyhole,
preventing curious spiders with their sticky traps of webbing to dance over the edges,
these facts smile at you, begging you forth, beckoning
with a laced fingertip, a hardened nail with something underneath, between the skin.
 
Who says you are permitted into the locket without a key?
Allow us to joust until the victor takes all the spoils,
every secret, every hope, every downfall, every dream,
unwound as though on a raised pianola roll,
a tune gaily played; a song that makes you feel free.
 
Don’t forget that song is predetermined,
no room for human error,
each note is there without phrasing, without emotion, without thought,
dictated by an invisible maker to our eyes,
at the repetition, I insert the key into the hole.
 
With amazement you look around, 
inside there is not much room,
some spaces only fit for a mouse, others for a boa constrictor, but I wouldn’t
own something so loud and obnoxious.
Carefully you sift through the remnants of the past,
like sand, the grains get lost between your toes and soles,
but you do not mind,
you are engrossed with the locket that houses many intricacies,
and sneakily I close the door, and lock you inside my heart,
you are all mine; all secrets safe with me.

© 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 GLady from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Stupid Youth – 13/01/20

    Poem: Stupid Youth – 13/01/20

     I remember being on that highway
 where I urged you on from my car
 to keep up with me
 the exhilaration breathless wind rushing 
 gasp inducing risk taking
 no one else here to see.
  
 100 110 115 pushing 120 could we go any faster honey 
 130 that’s it! 
 140 we’ve hit it,
 our cumulative grins bounce with chuffed merriment 
 from within our chassis 
 I know you love it, this feeling of being stupidly free
 there’s no one else here, you see,
 nothing wrong with this.
  
 A whirr whirr whirr resounds
 damnit, I cry, slowing as slowly as can be from 
 such a high speed
 widened eyes,
 Police officer, how can we help?
 Stupid selfish little girls 
 He hopes the lesson sticks and the expensive tickets help. 

 © 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 Cucu Petronela from Pixabay

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  • Poem: “I am enough” – 12/01/20

    Poem: “I am enough” – 12/01/20

     I am enough the way I am, she scrawls over and over
 on the draft paper for algebra which 
 she really has no use for, 
 her math is terrible, best use 
 the sheets as they are to scratch and scrawl.
 Enough, enough, enough,
 she traces the letters, feeds the words,
 perhaps one day another person she’ll enthrall.
  
 An understanding that if she writes the phrase 
 often enough it’ll ring true,
 a sudden belief structure then reverently erected 
 like a mosque or a church
 present to preserve self-acceptance 
 and worship of her own worth
 for she does not accept these words, 
 round and round her calligraphy swirls.
  
 Empty loops and hollow introspection exist,
 to her, she is nothing right now, she is yet to become.
 The ink drags along with her flowing hand,
 reflections of prior motions, 
 self-directions.
  
 But enough, enough! with this self-pity and deep sadness,
 at a lack of acknowledgement for 
 her true internal development,
 she is enough, 
 always has been,
 always will,
 so saddening she needed to ink the phrase upon her skin. 
  
 Because now the mark speaks of how 
 she believed she was not enough,
 so much so that, insecurity rose and drowned her,
 to pay someone to mark her for life,
 with words in a calligraphy that was not mine. 
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved. 

 Photo by Bich Tran from Pexels

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  • Poem: “I am enough” – 12/01/20

    Poem: “I am enough” – 12/01/20

     I am enough the way I am, she scrawls over and over
 on the draft paper for algebra which 
 she really has no use for, 
 her math is terrible, best use 
 the sheets as they are to scratch and scrawl.
 Enough, enough, enough,
 she traces the letters, feeds the words,
 perhaps one day another person she’ll enthrall.
  
 An understanding that if she writes the phrase 
 often enough it’ll ring true,
 a sudden belief structure then reverently erected 
 like a mosque or a church
 present to preserve self-acceptance 
 and worship of her own worth
 for she does not accept these words, 
 round and round her calligraphy swirls.
  
 Empty loops and hollow introspection exist,
 to her, she is nothing right now, she is yet to become.
 The ink drags along with her flowing hand,
 reflections of prior motions, 
 self-directions.
  
 But enough, enough! with this self-pity and deep sadness,
 at a lack of acknowledgement for 
 her true internal development,
 she is enough, 
 always has been,
 always will,
 so saddening she needed to ink the phrase upon her skin. 
  
 Because now the mark speaks of how 
 she believed she was not enough,
 so much so that, insecurity rose and drowned her,
 to pay someone to mark her for life,
 with words in a calligraphy that was not mine. 
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved. 

 Photo by Bich Tran from Pexels

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  • Poem: Suspended – 12/01/20

    Poem: Suspended – 12/01/20

     She hangs mid-air,
 suspended, as though from faint fairy strings,
 with the mischievous beings, barely there, 
 holding her aloft, 
 chattering quietly, smiling, sparkling, 
 socialising among themselves.
  
 She understands she is not perfect,
 she’s been sneered at and jeered at all year,
 a hopeless reach into the view for perfection 
 she’s been striving for, 
 because her beautiful curvaceous limbs 
 apparently do not match her 
 enviable waist circumference. 
  
 Why was she made this way? she wonders,
 as the fairies continue to dance,
 why was she made with measurements to 
 please herself, 
 but to cause her superiors to grow aghast?
  
 Mesmerised by the music of the twittering fairies, 
 a sudden overwhelming wave of realisation 
 washes and oozes into her pores,
 causing her to lose all sense of control,
 she trembles, she shudders, almost falls.

 And for that moment, she understands that 
 yes, all in all, 
 she is perfect,
 not only in her own way,
 but perfect regardless of what anyone has to 
 say at all.  
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Misterioso – 11/01/20

    Poem: Misterioso – 11/01/20

     Misterioso, 
 that’s how the piece is marked, 
 to be performed with a mood of 
 mystery and secrecy, 
 perhaps it speaks of a quiet enigma.
  
 Through these bars and notes I will troupe,
 exploring the shaded corners,
 casting aside the yawning awnings of protection 
 from the vividness of truth,
 there are certain things here which need identifying,
 items that cannot be denied. 
  
 A trinket here, a seashell, a fuchsia handbag there,
 what do these accumulated items mean?
 The glass trinket falls, 
 shatters or cracks, 
 whichever fits,
 either way, it’s done for. 
  
 The seashell houses a little mollusc, 
 a curled life that doesn’t wish to budge,
 she is protected, you see, 
 safe from all things,
 unless something or someone nasty comes crawling in to see. 
  
 What’s in your bag? a petulant child will call. 
 Can I see inside? 
 No, no, no. 
 Inside are my secrets, my misterioso relics,
 perhaps even something living, 
 a best friend of sorts —
 we only deal with interpretation.   
  
 I can unravel the mysteries because I have the keys,
 each I have inserted into multiple locks that makes the
 circumstances and facts easier to view, 
 now a gaping treasure-trove of 
 what-say-you, and how-do-you-do?
 Shyness aside, I am here for you 
 with colloquial truth.  
  
 © 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 ThuyHaBich from Pixabay

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  • Poem: When To Put The Garlic In? – 11/01/20

    Poem: When To Put The Garlic In? – 11/01/20

     Time for a meal of health tonight!
 I am overhauling the diet. 
 I have a guest, 
 he is nonplussed by my choices, 
 (he trusts me in the kitchen) 
 for I have proven my skills in many cooking processes.
  
 But, tonight, I am confused,
 who has stocked the real garlic area with a 
 squeezy tube of it as a crushed paste?
 My eyes narrow;
 this must be a trick!  
 for I am rather inept at knowing where in the 
 process to insert this ingredient.
  
 Slyly, I contact a sage friend,
 she’s a master in the kitchen,
 far more than I’ll ever be, 
 “When do I insert the crushed garlic into a stir fry?”
 She fails to reply. 
 I trust my intuition,
 I give it a try. 
  
 My chicken stir fry is a success,
 my guest is not left lacking,
 “That aroma, that sauce, that flavour,
 Exemplary! Unlike any other.”
  
 © 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 Matthias Böckel from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Nap Time – 10/01/20

    Poem: Nap Time – 10/01/20

     Thank you to someone special who permitted his
 fictionalising and through heavy edits, turned out 
 to be a different character entirely.
 ~ ~ ~
 I dance and prance before you, 
 playful hands edging your way, 
 eclectically jabbing to ruffle you, closer and closer,   
 my painted smile beams as hips swivel and sway.
 
 You present a stern scowl, 
 you have to nudge me aside, 
 you encourage my return to my original tasks,
 you’ve important things to do and write.
 
 But, I see the light in your eyes shine,
 your body moving to a rhythm as I continue this 
 interrupting frolic of mine,
 your computer screen's terminal is Darth Vadar black,
 flickering with a white-hat coder's dream.
 
 Riled though you appeared,
 I am highly amused, 
 so greatly so 
 I could mischievously perform all day.

 The tickle that grows in my throat from suspecting
 you are at the very least mildly moved makes me want to 
 squeal and giggle,
 I suppress them though, 
 I don't want to cause any unwanted upheaval.
  
 I know I’m likely interrupting something significant 
 but at this moment, it is time for you and I,
 together we can cherish my merriment and enjoyment,
 and perhaps even some special moments.
  
 But, you need to study, or at least want to concentrate 
 on something else entirely,
 you have certain things to attend to,
 well, darling, so do I, I’m taking a break
 isn’t it time you took one with me, too?
  
 All I want is to lie down, 
 to stretch this aching body of mine,
 using my mind for hours on end causes me 
 tightened muscles and lethargy,
 I just need to rest my eyes. 
  
 I wish for your companionship,
 we don’t have much personal time together,
 while I don’t wish for anything serious,
 I would love to have your comfort. 

 Where even the friction of your body lying next to mine 
 makes me feel contented and whole and 
 less alone, 
 the firmness of your form casts aside the 
 feeling of solitude begot from 
 working in your second study, 
 my temporary isolated room.
  
 Because I have purposefully excised myself from 
 the previous co-working area, 
 in this new study is where I find my privacy, 
 but after a few hours and a spell, 
 I’d like to have you next to me, sweet and loving,
 to let me feel your heart which, for me, beats so well.
  
 You finally acquiesce, I lie across your bed,
 obnoxiously taking up both places,
 with a smile, you roll me to one side,
 I lie down, curl into a ball 
 and with a giggle, proceed to snore. 
  
 You wrap your arms around me, 
 with a warmth I wish I had always known, 
 forms melding together, as though our curves were made 
 to fit the other's. 

 Your hands begin to explore but I push them away,
 push, push, push as you might have desired to do 
 during my amusing dance,
 It is time for sleep, I explain,
 this is the pressing matter of the hour,
 I feel your mood drop,
 your body disappointedly relax, 
 but soon we are asleep, 
 how I love our nap time.   
 
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved.
 
Photo by Gian Cescon on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Medication – 10/01/20

    Poem: Medication – 10/01/20

     The medication swims in my forehead,
 for some reason it’s affecting me there most,
 tonight I am hazier, staying up far too late,
 allowing the dosages to overly affect my consciousness.
  
 I want to make the most of my evening,
 but with these tablets I cannot,
 they drown my lobe; I feel the tightness in the frontal,
 a pressure of sorts, 
 I want to remain awake but I am fighting 
 a losing battle.
  
 The chemistry, the man-made cures for 
 bouts of temporary madness, which tames 
 the imbalances within my brain,
 I succumb to their placating of future ferocity, 
 I am now a sedated meerkat. 

  © 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 Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay

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