Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: July 2020

  • Poem: What To Feel. – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Poem: What To Feel. – Spoken Word and Text – 11/07/20

    Audio: What to Feel.
    Can I feel the moment?
This fateful occasion heralding?
When I realise that
things have been growing
and stirring,
how this is not
how the interior
was once mapped,
the scanning reveals a foreboding view.
 
I am astounded,
into fearfulness I’ve
been slapped,
 
my duty of care to myself
is incredibly important,
because, what I am pre-empting,
the consequences, the conclusion,
may all be my fault;
the past is a regrettable fact.
 
I’ve been told not to worry,
to please, return in two years,
I will return sooner, because,
what was discovered
causes my inherent fear to drive
its nail nearer,
its harsh end forces me to
dread and shudder.
 
Literature also informs
me to not necessarily worry,
but how can I not?
I am stuck, stuck, stuck,
in that moment,
during that phone call,
test results later numbly held in hand,
the fact that
growths are present
sends me into a firm, well-stated panic.
 
And sadly, I begin
to contemplate those who are important,
because how would they
feel if I were to leave
prematurely, if you will,
 
these are certain lives
I’m interwoven with,
fiercely, with love,
and who would wish for what I fear?
For what I’m envisaging,
the future truth will be but my curse.  
 
Am I overly paranoid or concerned?
Worrying for nothing?
I think not,
though,
why whine?
The results were benign,
 
I am aware of this reality,
but those occupying space within my body,
their unwelcome appearance,
I know they can easily alter their composition,
subtly morph into evil and became further invasive.
 
All I can do is wait and take care of myself,
and become calm,
anything but nervous, panicked, or agitated.

A/N: I wrote this piece to settle myself, and to centre my sense of internal gravity again. I wasn't sure whether to post this as it's very personal, but I thought maybe it may help someone out there, or allow them to relate to my emotions.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  

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  • Poem: Exhale – Spoken Word and Text – 10/07/20

    Poem: Exhale – Spoken Word and Text – 10/07/20

    “Exhale” Audio
    Don’t hold your breath.
Exhale, allow it to be free.
Allow the endorphins to flow through
your very being.

Do not hold your breath,
there is no need;
wondering, wishing, waiting,
for something which may not be.

Live, my love, live,
please know that I have been,
in this formerly crowded world
now a stripped ghost town.

Your heart
and my heart are full,
we must breathe the freshest
air that I can drag from this
phantasmagorical land,

we may be apart and alone
and I may be without true air,
but understand,
please understand
that I will return,
I will reign triumphant,
soaring upon winged creatures’ spans.

I will exhale as I jump from the edge,
expiring as I see fit,
because sometimes, in life,
we must accept that leaving
this world is required,
I will return again,

and again,
I will be myself
in another form,
perhaps you’ll find me,
and when you do,
exhale loudly and clasp my hand
then I’ll know
we have returned.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Beautiful or Ugly – Spoken Word Audio and Text – 10/07/20

    Poem: Beautiful or Ugly – Spoken Word Audio and Text – 10/07/20

    Audio: Beautiful or Ugly
    Your anger.
It starts, hissing,
a face contorting uncontrollably,
a tic here,
you’re growing stronger and far more beautiful
as your emotions arise,
of your internal nature I become aware,
each decision you decide.

Most people view your state
as ugly,
as something appalling,
but your anger, darling,
it shows me your turmoil is 
well and alive;
you’re amazing with how much you feel,
I’m being honest.

Your stomach twists you
into knots,
the grinding of teeth makes you
remember, remember,
the taste of frustrated tears
squeezed from the corners of
eyelids that will never
Forget-Us-Not,

Your ability to avoid the truce,
the agreement,
to live and let go,
your stubborn nature is wondrous,
it is sheer beauty to me
because it displays your
dedication to how we once were,
to how our lives used to be.

Thus, allow these tears to stream,
lava-like,
vulnerable,
they burn troughs deep
in your puffy, irritated cheeks,

and remember that though I’ll
not always be here
I will always be there
if in your heart
you’ll cherish me.

Your anger,
such beauty,
to some, it’s pure ugly.

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

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  • Poem: The Colours – Audio and Text – 09/07/20

    Poem: The Colours – Audio and Text – 09/07/20

    Audio: The Colours 
    Jealousy,
for some it’s serpent green,
coils around the heart,
constricting breath,
lungfuls into parts.

But, Hope,
for me it’s amber,
she’s millions of years old,
and so much she has captured
she’s not a gem
but like royalty she’s treated as such.

Hate,
for me, deep red,
blood-like,
thickened,
coagulating,
too thick to even be dripping.

Sunshine yellow Joy,
brightened, bold
she screams daisies
and wattles
and pollen
and bees bees bees
who hunt all on their own.

Panic,
sheer panic
a crimson mixed with mauve and deep purple,
they clash,
no jiving,
but oh,
they make me feel so riled.

Anxiety is blue,
a strange colour,
I’d usually assign it
to melancholy,
depressive hues,
but this blue is muddy
it’s unpleasant,
makes me squirm,
uncomfortable,
I want to kick away the
irksome gloom,
wish for another
less patent leathery day.

And Mania,
she's all shades of fluro,
all colours of the rainbow glaring and
glowing,
she stings my irises
constrict my pupils
her presence is a hindrance
but she's utterly tempting;
I stare and stare…

But Jealousy, he wants to lead the pack,
Why?
His neck coils around mine
decorating me like a
Medusa after the fact
I hiss him away
I don’t need us to conjoin or
with my innocent heart forcefully entwine.

I want my moods and colours,
to remain with me in compartmentalised ways,
each mood and hue have its own place,
I lay my head down to rest,
I’ll experience the colours another day.

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

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  • Poem: Anything But — An Ode – 09/07/20

    Poem: Anything But — An Ode – 09/07/20

    I'll express everything to you, dear, 
I am anything but silent.

My thoughts growl, 
grumble, then shine,
like a cross curmudgeon
who's been taken aback 
by something 
strangely pleasant,
something he'd been 
wholly unaware of.

Then, I transform into a 
rising, flowing,
ecologically-friendly bag
blustering in the breeze,

useful and able to be 
disintegrated,
but in the wind 
I unwind, 
like a kite, 
I am carefree.

I am this soaring, 
colourful plastic kite,
I was that ill-tempered now
brightened woman,

and occasionally I’ll 
surprise both you and I
with exclamations of 
unhindered laughter; 
our heaven,

the joyful giggling  
in your apartment complex 
with its walls 
so paper-thin:

at the neighbours’
tired, thumping reactions,
we spared no flowered damns
for our carefree, 
witty, raucous din.

A free form that flows,
where I will travel?
No one quite knows,

I’ll settle my roots,
a modern day view,
no longer grumbling,
nor full of air,
words wheezing out,
gassy, heated ill-views;

Is it worth constantly listening,
aloud, you once pondered,
the attention mostly
focused on you?

And you winked and
smiled cheekily, 
your heart was unprotected,
you meant no true offense,
with me you need no armour.

But, you do listen,
I am ever so pleased you do.
Your apartment sings with the
songs of my drafts,
over and o’er I reiterate them,
sharing the changes with you.

I know you
sometimes suffer,
at the hands of my
oppressively
repetitive work,

but you do this
not as your duty,
but to please this
once-airborne being 

who sought you out 
not because 
she was simply lonely,
not because of 
any selfish need,

but because she truly  
admired you 
and desires
your continued, 
charming company.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by danoliver2 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Lingering – 09/07/20

    Poem: Lingering – 09/07/20

    The silence greets me.
The questions which I have uttered are left
lingering,
their syllables carelessly thrown
to the wind.
 
It’s not a struggle to have let them go,
in fact, they’re a release,
a moment of crisis,
a catharsis,
 
and I know, I know,
that not every utterance should be
an emancipation,
but lately, most have been.
 
What is wanted, what is required? 
Being a poet, I can be selfish, if I decide,
of needs and desires
I need not necessarily deliver.
I can humour myself and my needs alone,
indulgent word fantasies like thickets grown.
 
But then, where would I be,
with no audience to breathe with,
to greet?
 
No more morning sparkles and shine,
their visits revealing notifications,
understandings that I’ve created something
that’s cast a modest net,
caused an effect.
 
Because when I link with my readers,
it’s the most wonderful feeling,
my mission has been successful,
I’ve helped them enter my realm,
 
how ever grateful am I for their presence
and careful scanning eyes,
your presence encourages me to continue
detailing my pain and paradise.  

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

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  • Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

    I glare at the
splotches of raw colour
in the mirror:
one, two, three,
four, more.
 
An adolescent’s
dreaded nightmare;
immense, angry, welt-like, firm.
 
They’re like curious mountains
which have arisen overnight,
swollen and painful,
because I insist on 
irritating their surface 
though I know 
it’s not right,
 
they flare, they throb
with each unsuccessful
squeeze I make,
 
who knew a war’s
been waged against me,
one I’ve unwittingly
been forced to undertake??

How to remove these
painful sites from my face,
clear my complexion
as if by magic?
 
I feel as though I might
require some form of
divine intervention,
because these mountains,
not molehills,
are certainly not budging.
 
Makeup:
foundation, concealer,
could work a treat,
but only if these
unsightly visitors sat flat
at 180 degrees.
 
If they were simple,
mere blemishes,
I could paint them
into obscurity,
 
however, this
aggressive adult acne
is really
my current reality.
 
I sit, perplexed,
wondering what to do,
it hurts when I
attempt to drain them,
the thought disgusts and
revolts me, too.
 
I have an important date
scheduled which I 
need later attend,

but I suspect I’ll be sending
my apologies
if I can’t make
the blemishes heal 
and cleanse,
fastidiously empty my pores,
leave them open once again.
 
Well, it looks as though
I’ll be staying home,
I’m not vain for 
avoiding company,
the solitude of my home is 
where it's safest,
where I can hide these
mountains raw and glistening.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image credit: Clip-Art Library

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  • Poem: Addiction – 08/07/20

    Poem: Addiction – 08/07/20

    Addiction,
it can reveal itself in 
many insidious forms:

drugs,
alcohol,
food,
another person,
even yourself.
 
It starts off small,
nothing sinister,
just a drag here, a sip there,
a few excited texts in a row,
or the journal in which
you scrawl 
endless thoughts of your own.
 
Addiction,
it’s potent,
perhaps you’ll succumb to it,
grasping blindly,
fingernails dragging,
internally snarling,
give me him/it/that/treat
need it want it
can’t be without it
 
The pen scrawls as though
it’s a mind of its own,
detailing your lover
or your self-obsession,
your catharsis,

you’re stuck, stuck, stuck,
on sharing -
won’t someone help 
break this cycle?
 
Addiction, it’s engulfed me
it’s taken o’er,
I am wallowing,

and now
and now
and now
I cannot stop
I won’t,
because I do not know how.

My addiction, all former 
afflictions cast aside, 
this was the one left to
to quietly fester and grow.

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

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  • Poem: Afterthought – A Longing – 08/07/20

    Poem: Afterthought – A Longing – 08/07/20

    Quietness,
the solitude,
I can exist,
for a while, at least,
without him.
 
Though he left
hardened punctures within me,
calibre-deep,
wounded,
gaping,
shrapnel succumbing,
 
I can still see right through me,
transparency
in my views,
aiming for blatant and softened truths,
now decidedly vulnerable,
but paralysed though,
extracting the spirit from herself,
she is often her own news.
 
She’ll exist by herself,
without him,
because his silent judgements,
provocations and admonishments
stripped her,
tore her love-worn, barren world apart.
 
There’s no fixing the damage,
but she will celebrate those wounds
for they prove she is human
easily broken,
 
and that she is not as
impenetrable as once believed
she is like him,
but not.
 
Unlike him,
she still possesses feeling,
and how this reflects,
shining upon her,
she’s real,
undeserving of being his mere afterthought.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Poem: Where the Pretty Ones Live – A Romance – 07/07/20

    Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to be,
posed or slouched so elegantly,
chiffon dresses or satin clinging.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where some want to 
spend some time,
gracefully sipping champagne,
for hours talking softly 
or romancing.
 
Where the pretty ones live
is where I found you,
strong yet awkward,
though slightly out of place,
 
but,
you were poised,
you were prepared,
you were honest and true,
 
and,
where the pretty ones exist
is where we forged our intent,
tenor and alto lines 
so rich and sweet,
I couldn’t conjure 
such a melody,
ours was of 
fantastical truth.

Where the strongest survive
is where we travelled to,
once floundering, 
we now clung to each another,
swept away from those beings,
left them afar,
 
and where the bravest reside,
we carried ourselves 
with great courage,
to rebuild bridges of our 
past insecurities
into palatable platforms 
which were warm,
serene, and inviting.
 
We didn’t need the 
presence of pretty ones
to make us feel complete,
we had each other,
and this was progress to be seen,
 
through many an endless ocean,
o’er many mountains,
upon winding paths and
cobblestone roads
we would traverse,
 
the pretty ones could
heave and breathe
their distaste and 
their bitterness,
upon neither of us
their jealous airs would be cast.
 
Because,
while pretty ones are
interesting in the moment,
we have advanced ourselves,
refashioned our near-empty selves 
into stoic
iron and mortar,

we are no longer 
impressionable,
weak,
overly tender,

through each other, 
we've found ourselves,
alone or together, 
we are stronger because of the other.
 
We no longer needed 
to listen to their gossip,
indulgent hissed and 
giggled tales between
champagne bubbles 
and sips of wine,

no,
no, my precious,
we have made ourselves truly whole, 
we have made ourselves divine.

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

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