Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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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: 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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  • 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: 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

    View YouTube poem video: ‘The Colours’ by Lauren M. Hancock

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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: 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: 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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  • Poem: Truth Within the Marrow – 07/07/20

    Poem: Truth Within the Marrow – 07/07/20

    Occasionally, I struggle to find the words
to speak,
to correctly express
my sincerity,
 
because sincere is how I wholly desire
to be viewed,
and I don’t wish for any
unfair prejudice or judgement.
 
I simply wish for
the right combination,
the winning ordering that shows
everything in part
or in whole,
that which I deem as important to know,
 
because,
little use would there be
in frightening myself into insincerity,
falsified expressions and pandering a-plenty,
 
disingenuousness and bent truths are not
how I’ve been raised,
not how I’ve been brought up to be.
 
Sometimes, I am too honest
and obvious for
my own good,
 
I can frighten or perturb
even those close to me,
with revelations,
with words they’ve never
seen nor heard,
 
they’d previously not have
considered them to be part of
my reality or path.
 
A close friend
recently listened
to my
recorded words,
 
which detailed several
mental health episodes,
my path, my mindset
was so unwell,
 
and here appeared shock,
stilted confusion,
quiet concern,
 
perhaps of my candour
and thought processes
he felt mildly aghast,
of the true extent of my illness
he had become more learned.
 
Unaware these prior thoughts
were what I had experienced,
for him, they must have
truly terrified.
 
I know for me,
at the time of their awakening,
some frightened the life
from me, too.  
 
But, I have this bone
within me
which I do not
want to pick,
 
in fact, it should be
lovingly stroked,
even strummed,
gently caressed,
 
because it assists
me with the melodies
of which I live, breathe and speak,
be they lilting,
or melancholy extended elegies.
 
The truth within my marrow,
it is rich and it is potent,
I will embrace it,
I will suck it clean,
 
I have allowed the taste 
to permeate my being,
and I will allow the honesty 
to embroil,
to envelope,
to overtake me.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image credit: Clipart Library.com - Wishbone   

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  • Poem: Bloated Wattle Buds – 07/07/20

    Poem: Bloated Wattle Buds – 07/07/20

    Delicate wattle buds
hanging preciously
in the air,
framed by their yawning captor
who, with great regiment
keeps them together.
 
The picturesque scene
a corner-bound
introvert’s dream,
stems forcefully
held in Captor’s cavity,
like binding a spell,
there is intention,
this method has been
carefully crafted.
 
While one may initially
joyfully glance upon this
pleasing scene,
 
the controversial feature,
by us, the pollen is not meant
to be captured;
it is meant to roam free,
 
bloated balls of yellow,
tickling masses for striped bees
and pollination,
as they were intended,
 
not for them to be wrenched away,
stolen by a gardener’s gentle need to
grasp hold of beauty in order 
for it to be specifically seen.
 
But how was
the gardener to know?
The vivid yellow
drew the pollen
to her,
 
perhaps reminded by the 
patriotic nature
of yellow and green –
“our land is girt by sea”,
 
though, she should not
be held accountable for
anything other than
introducing the pollen’s
cruel captor to the bunch,
 
a vase an unworthy adversary
for bees which require
pollen like this,
to continue their
fervent collections.
 
The presence of the
buds begins to annoy me,
what, with their false bravado
and natural cheeriness,
 
I shan’t destroy this arrangement,
but I am considering
putting it away.
 
Out of sight and out of mind,
I release unto the hidden pollen
a welcome, famished swarm.

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

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  • Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

    Poem: Butterfly Needle – 06/07/20

    How much can I
provide of myself
before the dripping
blood ceases
then clots?
 
A silent protesting
of my vein that
I’ve given all I
can willingly give –
there comes a point
where I must stop.
 
The vein is worn,
to extract any
further would require
that butterfly needle,
that gentle implement
those kind phlebotomists
insert when wishing to
avoid me extra pain.
 
Upon insertion,
the tenseness I
did not know
existed releases,
melts away,
 
and here I am,
bleeding again,
for me, us, them,
sharing as I see fit,
as I secretly adore to,
always.
 
There can be pain
in the share,
but there is
hope,
aching admissions, too,
 
emotions detangling
like a mass of headphones
all in confusing white,
each pod
begging for an ear
because I believe
some words need to
be heard.
 
Sometimes the blood
coagulates
on its own accord,
the flow will cease,
no need to be dismayed,
I inform myself,
 
there’s plenty of opportunity
to scrape that clot away,
it does not need
to be heeded,
felt,
acknowledged,
or seen.
 
And I’ll share as
much personal experience
as I can,
the butterfly needle
now redundant,
give me that thicker gauge,
so I can make a better exit,
 
Dramatic, you say?
Not at all,
I’m just being me.

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

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