Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: autobiographical

  • Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20

    Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20

    Wanting to make a difference,
trying to be heard,
I've spoken at length
and, I fear I've pained some 
minds,
eyes 
and ears,
still, I insisted on 
sharing more, and more, and more.
 
I’d apologise for
being fixated,
but, I am compelled, 
I want to
share my truths,

will they, have they
made a difference?
Could you relate?
Were you moved?
 
I know I need to
pull back,
drag drawstrings on the
crazed kite that’s
whipped so free,
decrease the momentum,
I need to drag, drag,
drag,
my words straight back to me.
 
To corner them in
a box,
a private site for
me alone,
until I can assess
what should be shared,
not haphazardly at you thrown.
 
Sometimes I share so
I feel less alone,
knowing that others
are sharing my
experiences, too,
 
makes me feel like
my varied path with its mistakes
and pains
may have more of a learning curve to 
ride and view.
 
I cannot help that
I’ve overloaded,
but when I look back
on my words,
 
I’m pleased that I’ve
shared, 
that I've opened up,
perhaps to you,
and to others,
this has drawn us closer.
 
Understanding to be allowed,
interwoven,
ne’er to be undone,
these moments, experiences,
truths of mine,
recollected and digested
together.

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

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  • Poem: Expressions In My Painted Corner – 04/07/20

    Poem: Expressions In My Painted Corner – 04/07/20

    I’ve painted myself into a corner,
with heavy shades
of red and black,
crimson for the
heartache,
darkness for the emptiness 
after the fact.
 
When I lost access to 
my chaotic world,
a paradise I shouldn't 
have cherished,
I felt broken, 
no recourse,
misunderstood, 
essentially alone:

Whom could I waltz through life with now?
Whom was left to cast my 
charming smiles upon, 
to share my lofty views 
in excited tones?

When he or she or another one left,
and those other important ones, too,
it seemed as if I’d lost 
my everything,
but now, at these
warped memories
I wonder: who on earth were you?
 
They had little lasting impact
on my life,
simply passers-by
who only meant
themselves well,
their sudden absences without alibis,
their silences spoke their truths,
I am now completely underwhelmed.
 
Selfish needs later attended to
after some uncomfortable, 
hastily arranged dates - 

their halfhearted, 
lackluster attention cast over
foamed four dollar coffees -
'wise investments':
I was viewed as a stock market who
should pay dividends later that day.

I proved so desperately hopeful 
for positive connections, 
genuine interactions, 
yet my lonely eagerness,
was perceived as a targeted weakness, 
I would later bend, shatter, 
and break.

Some chanced manipulation 
to slyly extract from me  
without my whole realisation or knowing,

because I was sitting there 
smiling,
consenting,
hopefully waiting,
my obvious yearning 
for acceptance
continually, perpetually growing,
like hungering, destructive flames,
they consumed me. 
 
Made pliable,
easily melded,
I allowed my 
resolve and will
to be bent,
to be repeatedly stung red-raw 
as though by a heated iron poker's end, 
to be tarnished,
and for what?

Absolutely nothing,
my efforts and emotions all ill spent.

Yet another 
redundant contact
to be eventually blocked or 
erased from view,
naivety and gullibility stole 
the best of my younger years, 
this is an essential, festering truth.

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

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  • Poem: The Bite and the Snarl – 04/07/20

    Poem: The Bite and the Snarl – 04/07/20

    Where is the bite,
where is the snarl,
where is the slightly obnoxious
nature to my scrawl?
 
Why is – here –
softness shown
when all I wanted to portray was
bite, snarl, bite?
 
Isn’t it odd that
revealing vulnerability
can make me feel
so empowered then
sickly weak inside?
 
Like reaching to touch
the underside of a
floaty blue bottle jellyfish,
it is enticing, appears so tender,
yet danger silently lurks,
its mesmerising imposition,
the impending poison
speaks of
my scrawled pains, too.
 
I can rediscover my spikes,
my ability to cause chaos,
the alliteration,
the harsh 
ck ck ck,
no wide mouthed assonance,
no openly assessing audience tasked with
observing my aching abnormalities,
 
I’ll sink my teeth in,
create a toxic pair of punctures
for my poison to glide its way through.
 
Then the venom
can flood,
overwhelm this
Surviving Victim –
am I truly such a thing?
 
My latent negativity can
overwhelm them, you,
last night you subtly alerted me to this.
 
I have sadly travelled
throughout recent years
on a path of personal
bitterness which repels,
 
and negative swimming thoughts
toward myself,
they’re not purposeful,
but they are well practiced,
this bite has become well-worn.
 
Am I truly an overly grumbling entity
who should simply
brighten her mindset,
because that is
easier to see?
 
It’s not so simple,
I’ve lived with
snark and bitter tones
the last few years of my adult life,
 
I shall try, however,
to allow the kindness
to rise from beneath,
penetrate my being,
and speak such kinds words
to myself
because, maybe I am deserving of these.
 
Then, my acerbic tone may dissolve,
the cuts upon my paining tongue,
healed or removed,
whichever self-imposed punishments
I practice thrown away,
 
I can hopefully again be labelled as free,
having shed this layer,
this skin,
this disease,
of coldness, sadness, and dismay.
 
One can still retain the bite
without making the world feel uncomfortable.

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

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