Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: August 2020

  • Poem: Childish Dreams – 14/08/20

    Poem: Childish Dreams – 14/08/20

    When I was much younger,
I dreamed up a fairy tale,
in which I was treated not as an 
obedient princess
but an adamant, decisive queen,
strong-willed yet still compassionate,
rescued from my bitter loneliness, 

and accompanied by,
walked alongside through life
next to a wonderful, endearing king 
in this world which often strikes against those who
pause to dreamily admire the sky,
while busy lives hustle and bustle,
rush on by.
 
Together we would dance and dance,
and seem like forever 
we were holding hands,
our twirling,
our waltzing,
my dipping,
for me, he would eternally care.
 
Then as I grew,
reality sunk in,
a realisation I didn’t need a man to save me,
I could fall and crawl and lift myself on my own,
princess I was not,
queen neither was I,
but my world,
my decisions I owned,
I had the courage to walk it alone.
 
No matter how I longed for
love, affection,
devotion,
when I was ready,
I trusted a king may still eventually show,
 
perhaps the first would be the last,
his appearance might be a type of curious offering,
life’s rewarding,
within my heart a new fairy tale 
began emerging -

although through love, 
I did not need saving,
I needed firm self-acceptance to continue  
developing and growing.

I could stand by myself, 
all alone, 
but sometimes it is nice 
to not be on my own
and as long as equality would be present, 
reign true, 

the yearning and hoping 
for another to complete the picture,
there is nothing wrong with that, 
perhaps my dream wasn't so childish,
nor so outlandish to quietly treasure and review. 

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Alise AliNari from Pexels

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  • Poem: Besotted at the Bar – 14/08/20

    Poem: Besotted at the Bar – 14/08/20

    I am absolutely besotted with him,
he is charming, and manipulative, and glib.
I am wholly delighted with him,
he is worthy of being taken home to meet the family,
this would be just such a welcome, wanted dream.
I am absolutely enamoured with him
he has, with haste, pulled the wool over my eyes,
my darling, I am obsessed with him,
won’t he let me take him home with me tonight?
 
His attentive glances,
his wide smiles,
his hands, how they gently gloss over mine,
his soft-spoken introduction,
his brass, hearty laughter a welcome contradiction,
he taught me his bliss
from the flicker of his wanton tongue
which spoke shapes in vowels and oohs
that would make any woman come undone.
 
His pronunciation anything but a contrivance at the time,
he certainly got his reaction,
his sympathetic looks when I told him how complex it was
in the all the manners in which I had been broken,
his promise of how he’d fix things with the superglue from his heart,
my sweetness, how clichéd he is but how endearing is
his enthusiasm to fix this broken
women not as a project
but restore me as a work of art.
 
Perhaps I have misjudged this man who sits before me,
open and seemingly honest,
listening to my stories,
head cocked gently to the side,
a sign of listening carefully?
He clasps my right hand softly, with eyes widened,
sympathetically.
 
I cannot help feeling safer now,
that perhaps this is not manipulation but genuine care
and concern,
who he really is, there might be much more to learn,
just as I have so much to reveal
whilst we rest upon bar with elbows,
sipping our drinks and getting to know each other’s worlds,
maybe he is right for me,
let’s throw caution to the wind,
a casual visit home soon to the family,
let’s see what my loved ones have to view, assess, and tell.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

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  • Poem: Positive/Negative – 13/08/20

    Poem: Positive/Negative – 13/08/20

    I find it hard to write about positive things,
of trees that wave within the breeze,
of hearts conjoining, brilliant eyes meeting
yet still sleepy in the morning,
of puppies playfully pouncing on their owner’s chest,
of a baby’s breath rustling quietly whilst she’s in bed,
her subtle yawning.
 
I find it difficult to write about the joy of nature,
to write about the light within the sky,
describing it in a manner that’s perfect for its
sumptuous bursts of coloured fire.
 
I find it easier to describe the desolate,
and the despairing,
the pain and suffering that my heart and mind have met,
I find it hard to scrawl about that warmth in the sky and how
it affects my mind, makes me want to fly,
I find it hard, not to speak of such things,
but to detail them when I write.
 
I am over-practiced with explaining the darker side of my life,
my saddened feelings,
the heightened strife,
I may be a happy person beneath it all,
but I certainly know how to make it clear
that I have been affected negatively;
somehow, I always end up letting you all know.
 
I find it hard to not be depressing
as I sit here penning, I find it difficult to flip the switch
and create something bright and sparkling,
something that will brighten your mood and something
that will heighten your morning,
alleviate your prior suffering and send you into a
state of smiling
that is most definitely worth experiencing,
something that will last longer than a feeling of saddened knowing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Mathieu Stern on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Elegantly Numb – 12/08/20

    Poem: Elegantly Numb – 12/08/20

    When will you realise that to be elegantly numb is not courageous
but is rather like dragging fingernails across a broken board?
I understand the need to be empty and without feeling,
but this is not something to aim for,
best be open in what one is saying,
drag forth the pain and suffering to the morning,
to be laid upon the ground to be judged in its sheer distress,
an understanding that really, being unfeeling is nothing to reach for,
you must, we must keep deeply breathing.
 
To be elegant is to be stylish, graceful, beautiful,
to be numb, without any feeling, is quite the opposite, I feel –
why aim for this?
 
Some may think that it is a purposeful venture,
that there is melody in winding with notes of brutal,
unspoken tunes to be slotted together in a row,
a personal choir, an understanding that while magic can rise forth
from between their lips,
to be numb inside,
for the creation of music of the soul,
it is counterintuitive.
 
Rise forth from the personal gloom!
Let us improve our lives as we see fit,
and by that, I mean elevating our roles
which are not living for pain and suffering –
sometimes it is inevitable,
these sorrows in life,
but it is not outside of our means to alter
our perspective.
 
While one woman may be ailing from physical suffering,
another from emotional distress –
aren’t the overall effects the same thing?
And really, understanding that the viewpoint could need altering
to envelop these women and pillow-soften them from their suffering,
it is so important to consider and see.
 
But, there is no reason to make yourself numb simply
so you cannot feel,
understand the circumstances of your life better,
analyse them, truth be told, be bold,
and know that the while the circumstances may not change,
the reaction is coming solely from you.
 
Open the structure of your heart,
allow access,
and make others feel not your distress,
but view your kindness and worth plain to see,
you’re art,
you always were,
allow your heartbeat to run and run,
and now, with feeling,
breathe.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Ankhesenamun on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Pheasants – 12/08/20

    Poem: Pheasants – 12/08/20

    The pheasants are happier today,
    they do not quarrel or bicker,
    they simply stand upon the chicken wire,
    plump chests and pride,
    smiles shining within their beady eyes.
     
    Pheasants should not be captured like this
    but they are prized for their symbology,
    their sign of luck and fertility,
    and certainly
    they are being reared
    for men and women so greedy,
    who want to gain altered fortunes so readily.
     
    But I will tell you this, their flowing tails,
    their glowing shades,
    their elegant necks, long legs,
    they send people into a frenzy knowing that their
    beauty is here, available,
    purchasable,
    not only enviable,
    it is trusted,
    the transaction is set, to be made well and ready.
     
    Cruel collectors, I suppose
    are really lifelong saviours,
    because they’d never harm this fortuitous bird,
    never ruin its serendipitous style,
    simply cash-sale and capture
    for the rest of its life
    the pheasants are pleased;
    their new owners will soon arrive.
     
    Anything can be better
    than living in a box of chicken wire
    rectangular sized,
    tiny in style,
    I guess they’d be grateful,
    essentially feel rather noble
    that they’d been selected
    by others who plucked them away from their places 
    within the cold stable.

    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Image credit: Pixabay

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  • Poem: An Early Arrival – Spoken Word and Text – 11/08/20

    Poem: An Early Arrival – Spoken Word and Text – 11/08/20

    Audio: An Early Arrival
    Death says, “You’re early!”
as I walk onto the stage.
My guillotine sharpened and ready,
media smiling while clasping notepads,
pressed pens upon page.
 
I was not expected for years,
this is what Death’s exclamation explains to me,
but I am a spectacle,
I am here for the hungry crowd,
they wish to view the macabre,
this audience is here and ready to see.
 
What hastened my arrival?
I could not tell you for sure,
even I am shocked into disbelief,
though of my end, not frightened to the core,
because I am here to promise a show for them,
I am here with the promise of a song and dance,
a strummed tune for them,
I will present until the final drop of the blade for them,
then off I will roll, and that’s the last I will reveal to them.
 
It’s hard to entertain when all I’ve been doing my whole life is just that,
not out of practice but tired of performing,
it drains me so to have to always be alert
and on show,
but the fact of the matter is,
I took this role,
and Death gestures as if to say,
“If you’re ready, off you go!”
 
I gingerly test the guillotine, pulling slowly,
allowing the blade to rise far earlier
than my life, my neck, would ever have expected
to have nestled beneath,
I try the blade, it is sharp, it is harsh, it is mean,
it is everything that is promised by a weapon from Death
who now seems so keen.
 
He is no longer shocked into submission,
he is encouraging the crowd to rise with their applauding,
and I wonder why he is so wild with their energy’s encouragement,
perhaps he wants me to go out with an enthusiastic moment.
 
But, I decide I don’t want to perform a song and a dance,
no, I don’t wish to partake in this solo show expected of me,
in fact, I have decided from this stage I wish to leave,
and quite frankly, I’m done with being this expected version of me.
 
Thus, from the stairs I clumsily descend,
scurry away with a glance over my shoulder,
apprehension in my eyes,
this is not to say of Death I am afraid,
but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I am unafraid, even brave before him either.
 
My courage simply wilted the moment I stepped off stage,
out of view from that hungry, cruel crowd,
I think I’ll stay well away from Death’s clutches,
I want to remain alive for far longer,
I don’t need to hear his grating, formidable tone,
myself, I know I have saved,
with my will and personal power.   

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

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  • Poem: Frustrations of Isolation – 10/08/20

    Poem: Frustrations of Isolation – 10/08/20

    How can I say this plainly, unflowery, with truth?
I’m frustrated, everything seems the same,
nothing to experience or share, no news.
 
I sit in my home and I try to create,
I use my phone also to try to connect,
but with others I feel a slackening bond,
becoming further away from one other,
is this now what it means to ‘get along’?
 
We each exist in our own little bubble,
Isolation, here are my troubles,
you cause me troublesome moments which extend
into the morning,
from evening to before dawn my problems are still lingering.
 
I am irritated and annoyed that there is nothing new to say,
that there is something unwanted about the contents of my days,
inextricable though the frustration may be,
it encompasses every wholeness of my being.
 
I cannot bring myself to bother anyone further,
I simply exist in my own little bubble,
I am trying to recover,
from life, and its cruel intentions,
what is it I must, we must, experience then?
 
I do not know,
but it will not do,
it does not do,
does not make me smile or wish to
stay for a little while,
in fact, from this world it makes me wish to up and leave.
 
To leave behind the mess of boredom,
the starched white collars of lonesome,
the inability to converse when with others I just
wanted to be myself.

Perhaps we'll find a solution,
perhaps I'll feel improving interaction,
but for now I feel this 'lonesome', 
and nothing else for me appears to be calling.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Extraction – 09/08/20

    Poem: Extraction – 09/08/20

    I tell the man that he is tyrannical,
he can take his rubbish home with him tonight.
 
I tell the man he is delusional,
he won’t get anything from me this, nor any other night.
 
I tell the man he is dreaming,
how far does he expect to get with this attitude in life?
 
I tell the man I am magical,
I don’t need his nightly strife.
 
I fly away on brightened wings,
feathers soar,
no clippings,
there has never been an owner to determine how I move,
whether I can rise,
what I can do.
 
I am a winged woman in charge of my life,
I am a soaring phoenix who will pay no 
attention to a rude man’s fabricated strife,
because if that man had taken a knife to my edgings,
I promise you, darlings,
he would no longer be the one calling.
 
I tell myself that I am not ready-made,
I am uniquely here and now,
my journey to arrive here, though convoluted,
would shock and amaze,
I understand that while I rise and soar
I am impervious to the dangers that lurk in human form on the ground.
 
Fallen beings, so they’re called,
and devilish spirits, whose callous lives will unfold,
before my very eyes I spot them, in a group,
in their gloom,
and this is what I screech as I descend,
this is what I do.
 
Behold my substance!
I cry from afar,
behold my potent nature,
I’ve developed myself, I express with my shrieks and roars,
and when my heated wings of my blazing form
shift and shine and shine and move,
I wriggle in a manner that wholly flatters my form,
and their eyes, those sets of eyes are now enthralled,
transfixed, their gazes are proof.
 
What say you to a dance?
I offer one of the women then one man,
what say you to a challenge?
First – the woman – nods readily,
the other pales in comparison.
 
She attempts to move her body but she does so
clumsily, clunky, violently,
it wholly seems a joke,
I try to keep a straight face,
and encourage,
to extract some form of hope.
 
Now my turn,
I say,
as I shimmy, shimmy, flurry
my fiery form and wings either side,
each way,
 
I now engulf them all,
send their damned souls back to hell,
because if not,
they’d remain and likely harm somebody else.
 
I cannot have them on my conscience,
but their extraction is something which I must never tell,
their rightful banishment, little to no substance,
this sordid tale which shall never be revealed.

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

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  • Poem: Shards and Confetti – 09/08/20

    Poem: Shards and Confetti – 09/08/20

    I am not a stranger to the darkness,
though I am unafraid of the light.
I am willing to crawl on broken glass,
dragging shards through my flesh
as I attempt to better myself,
fall away will the blight.
 
I can rip these fragments from my skin,
gaping wounds,
painful holes,
I am like the remnants of made confetti,
the cut-outs flung to the floor
because I am truly ready to breathe,
to inhale, exhale, be myself,
the darkness can flow aside
effluent mess into the drains,
instead replaced by purging cleansing rain,
I shed tears but they are unseen,
melding with the droplets reigned down
by a heaven or God who I am unsure even exists.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Sophie Dale on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Bright Spark – 08/08/20

    Poem: Bright Spark – 08/08/20

    I am in my element in this state,
perpetual song and dance, 
electrifying dopamine and serotonin
I rise, I rise, I rise fast.
 
My wit and charm seem perfectly at hand,
I giggle, am sardonic, I laugh with ease,
of this state I’m trying to comprehend.
Is life playing tricks on me?
 
Is it the reduction of the mind-numbing medication that is what's causing me this
amazing bliss? 
This erratic showwomanship that’s causing me to smile 
and dance all over the place,
with my body’s withdrawal tick, tick, ticks?
 
My creativity soars,
is mania pre-empted?
Wouldn’t you like to take control of my oars?
Be responsible for temporary guidance?
 
I will toss them aside,
I don’t, who needs control
not when I can explode with wild laughter,
my energy bubbling and frothing,
enthusiasm flows,
but don’t you know this,
this state I am in, my eclectic humour and lilting wit can only 
grow, grow, grow, and grow?
 
I am impatient, I can definitely be self-satisfied, 
I can be easily amused, this brews and simmers inside,
I am impressed by my words
and my ability to throw forth clever jokes,
when I'm like this, 
I entertain others,
no chance of boredom, for that, 
there is no hope. 
 
My sounding board, he listens,
with amused chuckles he accepts my
chortling trills,
it’s nice to have another soul with whom I can talk
rubbish to for hours,
without their ear being bashed,
assailed by my sounds,
together we can share some verbal thrills.
 
Rather than thinking I am too outrageous,
that my character is simply too much,
I think I’m just returning to who I was
(lies)
before the medications were slapped upon me
(lies: you might need to replenish, 
stop the spare pills’ accumulation,
rather, send them to your insides)
a mind's clever tricks, recommendations of mine.

I should know better
but I am being optimistic,
bipolarity flies from within me,
I love this freedom,
the ability to daily and nightly dream,
I am living for the moment,
I am so happy to finally be here,
the abnormality here is none!
In this state I am positively flowing.

I cannot quite believe it,
it seems there's a wave of rolling applause and excitement,
I must attend to the imagined need there is,
heaving and ready, 
thank you for being here yourselves,
and here for me,
I tentatively smile, then beam, 
yes, why, of course,
all is as it seems.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Vitória Santos from Pexels

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