Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Category: Uncategorized

  • Poem: Paralysed Thoughts – 03/07/20

    Poem: Paralysed Thoughts – 03/07/20

    I wonder:
Is there such a thing
as paralysis
of creativity?
The centre of
my thoughts that hold
intrinsic meaning,
 
where fireflies dance
and darkness looms
and fervent flames
of passion can
fill this room.
 
This room,
which houses techniques
and methods of madness,
has been disabled,
of smooth movements
it simply cannot
slide nor speak.
 
This is not a lacking
of inspiration
but rather a
hostile sense of
forced contemplation.
 
And I can sit here
patiently waiting for this
centre to regain fluidity
its natural flow which takes
 
my left foot, right foot
gently forward
until I reach,
closer you,
 
but this quiet solitude is disturbing,
so, I shriek,
paralysis now shocked,
returning to life,
 
stale tastes and thoughts
flow, unwelcome,
ridden of,
from this now-chaotic scene.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by pasja1000 from Pixabay

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  • Micro Poem: Along the Dotted Line – 03/07/20

    Micro Poem: Along the Dotted Line – 03/07/20

    Could you condense yourself
into a single line?
You, every fibre of your being,
exposed, viewable, entwined.
 
Who’s that knocking at the door?
Pounding,
“I’m here”, your intrepid war cry,
single line, single file
your name scrawled with mine.

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

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  • Micro Poem: Heartfelt Ribbons – 02/07/20

    Micro Poem: Heartfelt Ribbons – 02/07/20

    when you breathed life into me,
i felt my tight ribbons unfurl,
the edges of me curling under,
towards my heart,
decorating me whole.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

There are moments of brightness among the numbness. A shine that burns through the darkness. Whoever brings you freedom, cherish them. Hold their presence close.

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  • Poem: Still Surprisingly Numb – 02/07/20

    Poem: Still Surprisingly Numb – 02/07/20

    As our car enters
our street,
around the bend
the surprising sunshine greets,

glorious, positive, shining,
it strangely has
no effect upon me.

Where once I felt the
warmth, the sunshine’s smile,
now I remain hollow,
there’s nothing brightening
about.

All I can remember,
all I can recall,
are the feelings of
emptiness,
when will I succumb
to something
more positive?

It seems that while the weeks
of introversion have
yielded some success for me,

the negative side
of excessive rumination
is that my eyes are now
stained pensive,
accompanied by a
despairing lullaby,
with no clearly visible dreams.

Bright colours,
warming garments,
vivid flowers,
used to heighten
the corners of my lips,

though now at these
I stare blankly,
my eyes and heart
are underwhelmed.

When did I permit
all to be ordinary?
Artistic inclinations
no longer on the rise,

a dulling effect
upon me now,
a colour is just
a colour,
no feelings or associations
to see,
to tempt my mind.

To look out the
window to the garden,
yes, a winter’s bed
is still beautiful,

the way the sunlight
basks upon the plants,
bird sculptures seem to dance,
bird baths slowly collect,
gently clanging hanging chimes,
a world carefully constructed
yet it’s no longer part of mine.

When will these
feelings pass?
I feel so stuck,
encumbered then by this negativity
which fails to cease,

I need to rid myself of this
pessimistic realism
as I have deemed it,
there is no need to fall into
a wintry storm,

where the unwanted snow
dumps its fall of
powder-soft drift,
and I don’t even scramble because
I cannot be bothered
with freeing myself.

So, I freeze,
due to my despondency,
my inability, 
my lack of desire to escape
will long keep me
from roaming free.

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

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  • Poem: Too Much Time – 02/07/20

    Poem: Too Much Time – 02/07/20

    I’ve too much time on my hands.
For some, this would be paradise,
but for me, it’s a continual, 
rising obsession of poetry
and revisions filling my mind.
 
I can spend hours and hours 
retouching a word,
retouching another phrase, 
here and there,

rephrasing this and rewording that,
the stresses of syllables 
hold great power,
I am aware.
 
Too much time is dangerous,
I work arduously and arduously
even if my words may be 
ill received,
 
I strive for perfection,
the utmost that I can,
though I need to recognise my work
isn’t the centre of everything,
it is not all-encompassing.
 
But, for me, it’s a driving obsession,
the need to write, correct, 
edit and rephrase, 
to ‘right the wrongs’,
as they say,

my words, they have 
too much time
to be altered,
at night, I lay stagnant yet wide awake.
 
My phrases cannot sit and marinate
in their juices of potent honesty,
because, I won’t allow this:
changes and niggling, 
internal suggestions
are currently what compel me.
 
So, what to do with 
this obsession?
This drive for perfection, 
or as close to it?

The need to present the best I can,
that’s healthy,
but this method I’m experiencing 
is causing an unpleasant reaction.
 
I could close the computer down,
walk away for days or hours,
but I’m far too attached;
I’m stuck,

to write continually 
is my life now,
it has become that 
part of me where upon
the gap in my heart 
has been sewn.

The stitching, the patching,
of that broken, 
missing piece,
is now where 
bushels of words and truth
are overgrown,

and my words, 
in your mind, 
I will speak –
I’ll find it difficult if I were 
to ever let go.
 
Too much time has its setbacks,
I’ll shut my notebook, 
close the computer down,
when will I learn to 
slow my mind down?     

When will I learn to 
leave my words alone?

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

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  • Poem: Paper-Thin – 02/07/20

    Poem: Paper-Thin – 02/07/20

    Some may view me as mechanically sound,
for I smile quite naturally 
and talk with a 
lilting, confident tone.

My words are 
humorous, relaxed, and 'well',
they don’t know what’s 
hiding inside,
the astringent sadness, she overwhelms.
 
Internally, I feel stretched, 
as though a
punishing thin layer
has been made out of me,

a conglomeration of 
bones, tendons, sinew
enters the picture,

a rolled flat image 
from my pieces,
made from my core,
I am thin, thin, thin;
you can almost see through me.
 
I am not ticking timepieces and 
cogs well oiled,
I am bits of paper-thin 
skin and bone
attended to with the most 
callous of ease,

the beings who made me 
into this sheet
of paper-thin madness,
is the prior mentioned 
Mistress of Sadness,
and her partner, 
Despicable Depression.
 
These two are entwined with the
same cruel feelings, 
they feed off one another,
take victims cold and easily,
they mean harm, I promise,
when I explain, when I say,
that Mistress and Despicable 
aim at pulverising,
they’ve already done me, 
haven’t they?
 
I have been made into a 
sheet of nothingness,
my structure broken and melted and flattened,
I do not know how I’m meant to feel
or be
or understand,
that my existence is but a sham,
 
I wear that smile,
I wear this wellness,
so people won’t misunderstand.
 
The thinness is a curse.
I am truly damned.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by PIRO4D from Pixabay 

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  • Poem: Beneath My Layers – 01/07/20

    Poem: Beneath My Layers – 01/07/20

    Sometimes,
occasionally,
I feel like I’m coming back to life.
 
When the outer layers
peel down and around me,
revealing the
scintillating softness inside.
 
So curious am I to
view and feel and touch
this part of my identity,
where I am 
completely vulnerable and wholesome
and completely, utterly me.
 
This nature of myself 
is obvious to all,
yet still some are oblivious,

they are unused to this 
type of enthrall
in which I project a 
certain quietness,

an ethereal truth that 
whispers and ebbs
and flows
amongst the undergrowth -

these moments are special,
they herald timely news.
 
The tactile response of
hand upon softness
upon treasured flesh 
upon raw skin,

surrounded by that 
delicate fog,
sensations
of seeking something 
internally,
 
I’m curious,
what does this 
softness of myself
really mean?

Am I gentle?
Does my kindness live nestled in 
the undergrowth,
behind those protective outer layers?
 
Should I keep revealing this side,
this part of me,
so vulnerable I am
to others?
 
It’s as though I’m a
lost babe in the woods,
bare and so innocent,
I smile, grin with a
single infant tooth,
 
I am away from home,
yet I am right here,
there is nothing to worry for,
be concerned about,
to fear,
because my softness
is finally here,
 
and of my strength,
such internal,
unseen strength,
I am quietly aware.  
 
Beneath the layers,
I’ve finally found myself
and I am so proud 
to be here.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Marjon Besteman-Horn from Pixabay

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  • Poem: I Cherish – 01/07/20

    I cherish:
the wind whipping about my hair,
the still-bitter taste of sweetened coffee –
it reminds me life’s not always sweet.
The taste of crunchy cereal in the evenings,
the gentle tap-tapping of
conscientiously-used computer keys.
 
The welcome inertia of
remaining in bed long after a nap,
the loving words spoken to me,
that from anyone else would be cliché,

a feeling of coming home to
family after a weekend away,
their smiles from the couch
as they greet you warmly,
knowing that you were 
and are always wanted,
it is a fact that will remain.
 
The solitude offered
when I simply want to work 
while being alone
in the comfort of another’s company,

the powerful sensation of
breathing, absorbing, 
into my cold being,
the warmth of another’s close body,

a hand, a gentle stroke,
reminding me that my world is 
quietly amazing.
 
I appreciate the little things,
though they can be so often hard to see,
taken for granted,
I must force my eyes open,
willingly breathe these blessings in.
  
Sometimes we can be
distracted by things 
which overwhelm
and seem of more import,

but I shall share this with you,
appreciate your life, 
your blessings –
I know that I’ve been blinded temporarily,
but I now know and appreciate
what I have before me.
 
Because we must cherish and
treasure the little things,
they’re so easy to dismiss,
to sweep aside and
complain of petty things,
or focus on other areas of our lives.
 
Betroth yourself to the memories,
the circumstances,
the power of love,
of consideration,

and if you cannot,
perhaps something will appear,
reminding you of your blessings
with its intervention.
 
Perhaps you’ll feel alerted,
eyes wide open to that
which is before your very eyes,
and I wonder, I wonder to myself,
will we see or remain blind?  

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

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  • Poem: Depression, A Realisation – Spoken Word and Text – 01/07/20

    Poem: Depression, A Realisation – Spoken Word and Text – 01/07/20

    I’ll admit it.
Depression must be settling in.
The sadness has quietly 
crept into my clothing and then into my bones,
until I’ve become used to his company.
 
I snipe at little things,
take offense, 
wallow with despair,
I want to reject this feeling,
but I am too languid,
I need some form of interjection.
 
But my mouth, my tongue seems far too fat
and lazy
to conjure itself into the words,
Leave me alone;
I don’t want your company,
because his is the only partnership I can envisage
that’s making me feel so utterly lonely
even when surrounded by those who care for
and love me.
 
He’s like that tight, oppressive, unwelcome sweater
that you try on from years earlier,
to see whether the style still fits,
still suits you,
and you realise that his sizing is just not right for you.
 
And you can’t throw him off,
emotional you become,
engulfed in the face by years-old musty scent,
from the attic my depression now becomes,
he suffocates,
I panic,
I try to escape.
 
It seems too hard though,
to throw this sinister, insipid being off.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Ulrike Mai from Pixabay
    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/depression-a-realisation-spoken-word-poetry-by-lauren-m-hancock

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  • Poem: My Morning Show – 30/06/20

    Poem: My Morning Show – 30/06/20

    Every morning is the same for me,
I rise, I pad, I create hot water that I stain 
black with bitterness,
a substance that does please.
 
I open my laptop, 
attend to the various avenues,
hoping, wishing, waiting,
for the stats to reveal certain clues.
 
Is it bad to hope for the 'views'?
Is it bad to desire more 'likes'?
As someone who creates, I feed off the sensation
that my work has some effect upon other people's lives.
 
But views without likes,
now that’s an interesting notion,
they make my heart sink slightly,
but I shan’t allow any sense of
commotion,
angst,
anguish,
or weighty rumination,
 
to permit these existence
would be unwise,
something unwarranted,
better to learn from 
whichever mistake was performed
and for my next creation
strive for something 
more appealing and perfected.
 
There is no shame in understanding
that occasionally one shall err 
and one will fail
at being the effervescent, welcoming being
that appeals to most,

but then again, some enjoyed the darker side of me,
my prior pain, the rapid rise, 
the subsequent self-imposed suffering,

they empathised with these moments,
perhaps because they proved that 
humankind can fall,
from my delicate mantelpiece
I had fled, took my leave before them all.
 
I suppose it’s better to vary what I show of myself,
a slow striptease? 
I'll undress myself to reveal not my skin, 
not my muscles, 
not my bones,
but my inner strength,
the quiet fortitude that lives within me,
to reveal the true nature of myself,
why, this is what I hope others will wish for 
and quietly desire to read. 

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

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