Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: July 2020

  • Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Audio: Unhealthy
    I am appalled,
I have failed to secure or retain
a personal connection,
a fallen notion,
an untidy, needy calling.

Why does my desire to be considered,
to be seen without trigger
exist, a stifling need woven like poison ivy
around a body and mind so disheartened?

How to dispel my lofty expectations
and allow the rain
to fall upon myself,
some cleansing gratitude,
I have spoken of this before,
now again this needs to be acknowledged,
deemed as righteous self-care and to the core.

My eyelids begin to droop,
my mind has abruptly flipped its switch,
medication has settled in,
it may be time to cease this
emotional barrage,
I’m disrupted behind this blank, calm mask,
no, now is the time for my redemption,
I’ve struggled to be myself,
to not lean upon others for self-worth;
I’ve been like this for years.

Caring eternally for opinions
can be stifling and drain the life from me,
even those whom I shouldn’t care for,
shouldn’t be concerned about nor mind,
I'll secretly consider what’s on their minds,
though we may be different,
we are still from the same ilk,
members of humankind.

A collective smile,
a happy family of viewers,
then frowns and bemused looks from
some unmoved, disapproving beings,
subtle trends of purposeful silence,
I am not subtle,
I am loud, and proud, and obnoxious
or at least that’s how I portray the dramatics.

Because, this is who I am,
it is a prickly part of me,
the indelicate balance of showy
need for approval,
for acknowledgement,
with the desire to be
proud and confident and not care,
at least neediness has lessened over the years.

But what pains me most is that
I cannot stop caring,
be it due to my annoyance or curiosity,
I want to please others,
so much so that it’s unhealthy.

I could sit before a psychologist and
allow myself to be willingly
scrutinised and analysed,
but, I view no point in this,
these traits are heavily ingrained in me.

Through years and encounters of 
desperately desired equality,
having been taken for a ride
because my mind was immature,
naive,
self-esteem fragile,
I was unwitting.

Thank God I'm finally waking up.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by bstad from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Conclusions – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: Conclusions – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: Conclusions
    When conclusions are reached,
my being sings a triumphant song,
we’ve set aside our differences,
placed them out to pasture,
pains thrust aside,
almost forgotten all along.
 
There’s no irritation lingering,
no passive aggressive disease,
poor judgemental words pounding,
understanding ill, reactive behaviour
for what it is.
 
And tirades and mutual disrespect
have been left crumbling
in the dust,
anger does not propel and further,
resolve is stronger,
admiration and mutual support are clearer.
 
Because what would we be
if we didn’t occasionally
stumble and fall,
there’s no need to crawl back
to one another,
we only temporarily lost our enthrall.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Ron van den Berg from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Blessed – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: Blessed – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: Blessed 
    I am blessed here,
in a home so warm and loving,
no matter if it’s empty,
aside from myself,
I can feel the love lingering,
it is forthcoming.

It reaches,
grabs hold like little hungry fingers
would reach for a
snack or chocky milk,
enveloping around me,
arms tight and strong
and true,
like a relationship that
may not fall apart
because the path there was willingly learned,
to be calm and respectful, too.

I am quiet here,
though my fingers tap and compose,
I am strong here,
I don’t need the scent of mature, picked lilies or daffodils,
a single beautiful rose.

I’ve suffered in silence,
and I’ve been subjected to much,
but I won’t allow rigid experiences to permeate any further,
I’ve been in a dither, I’ve been bothered,
and honestly now I am
blessed in this house,
upon all hours.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Jess Foami from Pixabay

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  • Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: An Illusion – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: An Illusion
    My hands present as aged and weary,
my flesh paper-thin and melting 
like an image of Salvador Dali’s,
with bones like soft honeycomb,
where bees cheerfully settle in.

Their wings frantically beat
they seek nectar from the rhythm,
the rhythm,
hands slowly try itching them away,
off my skin,
away from an arm which they travel upwards,
ignoring my slow decay.

Other insects join in,
stinging mosquitoes,
beautiful butterflies
who live but three days without sin,
it’s rather unlike the diaries of old,
to go three days without intentional error
would utterly amaze.

The bees are now concerned,
combatted by the wasp
whose angry demeanour wishes to fight
my friends,
in my shin’s honeycomb land,
the buzzing, the droning,
whom will succeed at their intent?
At securing a home of marrow-less matrimony?

A fly settles on the wall of my wrist,
sardonically smiling,
he decides to join in the violent tryst
of bee upon enemy
upon melting candle-wax skin,
dream-like
or like a nightmare,
reality is falling.

In the heaviness of a veil
which draws itself away from my subconscious,
I'm once more myself,
no more strange images,
curious bees
butterflies, maddened mosquitoes,
wasps whom will not leave.

My bones are themselves again,
full and not deprived,
weariness dissipated and skin almost
pristine,
I am alive.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PollyDot from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Din – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Poem: The Din – Spoken Word and Text – 13/07/20

    Audio: The Din
    Filter the rain from the mountaintops,
where acidic droplets beat down,
an acrid taste,
a burning sensation
of skin besieged by astringent vowels.
 
This was not intended,
though this was required,  
her purging,
pairs of eager, shiny boots
step forth,
 
the small crimson soldiers attack,
an internal awakening
as hearts and minds ache,
hers will visibly crack,
it’s not only her sufferings that stun,
it’s her experiences, too.
 
Their blood lust for her mind,
they wish to invade,
pillage,
and never give back,
these blood-stained soldiers, miniature beings,
worth nothing alone,
yet together,
they could save lives, if agreeable to this.
 
Yet they press forth,
through her skin they pierce,
there’s nothing to do with permission here,
her thoughts, they appropriate themselves at their will,
care and concern are remiss.
 
Staining upon her clothing,
staining upon her skin,
her purged catharsis,
unwittingly melded,
she flails,
she falls,
to their silent din.
 
The vibrations are enough
to cause her cacophony,
she will lay here until dawn rises,
quietly still,
until it's the morning.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 3321704 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Drainage – 12/07/20

    Poem: Drainage – 12/07/20

    Strangely exhausted,
an afternoon, heavily slept,
too much, too much,
ill memories draining,
they won’t rise delicately,
rather seep down below the mattress,
will not gently fly away.

A drainage system
below the surface
of a city, a being,
more than four times hastily gone mad,
residual pain wafting from
the wide walkway pipes,
potent,
uncleanly,
needing purification:
the sensations do not need resurfacing.

But a town mayor deems it so,
right and correct to flush this town of
mental muck
though the waterways will never
flow with pure, clean goodness,
it doesn’t hurt to try, though, does it.

Her drip,
drip draining like a cannula,
a personal IV,
feeding pain-controlling and cleansing
elements to this human city, this sleeping being,
in an instant there is a rush of 
blue then red dyed magic entering into her veins,
her memories become less aching,
less hounding,
can the system be cleansed,
and her self still remain saved?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Semevent from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Writing to Escape – Spoken Word and Text – 12/07/20

    Poem: Writing to Escape – Spoken Word and Text – 12/07/20

    Audio: Writing to Escape
    As I sit down to write,
my muscles ease,
feet arrange neatly into place,
my fingers at the ready.
 
This is my time,
where I will shine with tendrils
of arrangements that are 
written not only for me,
but for others, too,
I don’t simply write for myself,
I have a sense of duty to them,
for from within me,
like a geyser I expel my truths.
 
Confessionals, confessionals,
my autobiographical poems,
they’re the one and the same to me,
I do not aim at whetting the appetite
however, I do wish to flood certain seas.
 
To share and to reveal is something 
deemed worthwhile,
perhaps I’ll reach many or a few,
maybe my words will resonate with them,
their circumstances conjoining with mine, also,
 
and as I sit down to write, I am focused,
I have great intention,
and I know that what I produce 
will be the best I can
arrange for myself this very night,
I need to be left alone,
quietly,
without any intervention.
 
Because interruptions,
these cause me great distress,
I’m sitting here recording,
on and on,
because at subtle turns I make verbal slips,
new recording!
I’m doing my best,

if an unsuspecting arrival were to 
rudely arrive at the door,
I’d be mortified,
I already fear being heard and
viewed as conceited,
for the words I record and record,
that speak only of me.
 
But this exploration of myself,
as I sit down to write,
no longer to edit and read,
to analyse the past, the present,
upon a platter, display the future,
and anything in between,
 
the haphazard nature of rabbit traps
and paw prints leading into them,
I guess the rabbit was not so wily,
she needed to be a little more observant.
 
This rabbit danced around those traps,
now look, she’s here, whole in whole,
to be seen.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Disordered Order – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Poem: Disordered Order – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Audio: Disordered Order
    Whom do I spy in the looking glass when I envelope myself?
I warmly wear the blanket of
my past reflection,
she’s sadly a proud yet broken identity
forcefully dragged from my past’s dusty shelf.
 
I understand the meaning of,
the truth behind visual fact,
my reflection possesses an ability
to control how I am perceived,
with her insistent dance of obsession and vanity,
their relationship needless, self-imposed suffering.
I’ve only tried her on for size,
to see how she looks.
 
Outwardly, my second skin flaunts her silhouette,
wears clothes of skin-hugging style,
she is thin, thin, in,
jagged, and angular,
all I used to be,
 
she is hollowed, beautiful,
she stuns me without words,
allows her image to speak for itself,
while her head is partway, swimming in the clouds.
 
I lived and breathed her sought perfection,
I almost perished for that emptiness being my truth,
the truth that I believed mattered the most,
that I could impress visually,
though many others could do so, too.
 
I scoured the forums,
learned many tricks,
I stubbornly pushed myself through
gruelling workouts,
despite being emaciated, dehydrated, and sick,
it just seemed courageous to me,
I was doing this; I was leading up to true living.
 
But, I couldn’t keep up my body’s distress,
the longer I went, the more I failed,
food shovelled, binges entered into my face,
then suddenly layers became layers became layers,
and their eyes began to show less want.
 
How fragile had I allowed myself to become
to permit my existence and worth to be
upon this earth spun
propelled by opinions and feelings of strangers,
passersby,
the looks, their slight hunger, or appalled reactions
within their eyes,
 
and I now shudder to myself,
how I believed being sick and hungry was strong
when so many unwillingly suffer
I turned my nose up at health and nutrition
because I believed eating was weak and completely wrong.
 
I’ve recovered, but as they say,
there’s always an unhealthy relationship,
between a ‘fixed’ eating disorder sufferer
and both their treasure and source of pain,

counting all the facts,
I could slim down again if I wanted to go back,
but the path itself I know is arduous
and it’s painstaking,
it’s not worth it,
to return to the disorder of ordered intent.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Magic Trick – 11/07/20

    Poem: A Magic Trick – 11/07/20

    Magic trick,
you’re a magic trick,
you make my face brighten, warm, and shine,
 
Magic trick,
you're a magic trick,
you cause me endless joy,
wry head shakes, claps, and smiles.
 
Like a magic trick,
you suddenly appeared in my life,
I may have chased down your existence
but truly, you were worth it,
 
Because, Magic Trick,
my Magic Trick,
you brighten each facet of my life.
 
I am your diamond,
or so you say,
with my playfully haughty self-esteem,
I shouldn’t believe those words any day,
 
but maybe I was a different gem under pressure
from millions of years ago
whom you have rescued from this
occasionally cruel and cold-hearted world.
 
I sparkle, you mesmerise,
we each have our power,
our ability to impress without words,
 
my dearest, you bring comfort
when I won’t express what’s ailing me,
and those other magic tricks who were
intent upon disappearing,

I’m so glad they vanished,
let me sparkle and shine
because I am the one who you cherish.
 
Place your cloak over both of us
and we’ll travel away from this world,
into a land of anonymity and 
soft, mesmerising twirled details,

we’ll live by the mountains, 
by the forest, 
or the sea,
anywhere where our presences live
for each other,
purely you and I to be seen.   

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by Kranich17 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Confrontation – Fiction – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Poem: The Confrontation – Fiction – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Audio: The Confrontation 
    A/N: This is inspired by a poetry prompt from Cynthia Schwartzberg Edlow to describe my angriest moment (with someone whom I cherish, which I chose to reverse and fictionalise) using the words 'squall' and 'hush', and without using 'love, like, heart, mad or cry'. I ended up using some of the banned words, though. 

I squall at him,
he glares and points, and orders me to hush.
I laugh incredulously, thinking,
hush little baby, don’t you cry,
I planned on doing anything but sobbing
any lullaby.
 
I rise to the challenge,
eyes intent on staring him down,
I can emit anything I liked,
but manipulating me would the power of his crown.
 
I have known beings like him before.
those whom wrap me around,
hand and foot,
little finger to finger,
and this distaste of our connections linger
in my body;
I don’t want to generalise but how can I not?
All their faces together into his I am seeing.
 
What has stopped me from leaving?
What has caused my scorn to die down
and crush my self-worth into nothing?
I used to be this strong, amazing woman
and now:
under his dancing thumbs and fingers, I am living.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by ArtTower from Pixabay

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