Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: blog

  • poem: arisen – 28/02/22

    poem: arisen – 28/02/22

    even when I’ve not everything I need all around
    I have all I need when I’m here
    the bare minimum does not contribute to any sense of gloom
    nor quaint snipey conversations within the room
    my face doesn’t grow tired or long
    because I am here and now
    and by my side is… you.

    I know you’re tired of the same old love poems
    dedicated to you and I,
    perhaps things are about to change,
    perhaps we’ll move on, move forward,
    move forth,
    we are too good for dwelling upon the
    prior circumstance –

    we will move forward.

    no matter how long it takes,
    how many angsty bitter tunes and rhymes
    I won’t be like that today,
    at least, not this time,

    I wander our memories,
    childhood, adulthood things
    as I clean with slow ease,
    wondering what to bin, what to keep,
    what to allow as designated for others,

    and I realise how quickly time’s passed
    before my very eyes,
    and I contemplate what happened to the stars,
    the moon, oh the stars
    when my world was up in arms,
    I was angered, bitter, untidy, nasty,
    cruel to mankind,
    it wasn’t pretty,
    but it was only a spell,
    for a tiny moment in time,
    and recovery is poignant,
    it is turbulent,
    but it’s occurring,
    within hours.
    within minutes and seconds, darling.

    And those who decide to stand by me,
    as friends, as warriors, as heroes,
    times three,
    many have been here in the making
    but only three remain somehow,
    maybe more,
    but they’ve no designated doors,
    not yet, anyhow.

    I am watching and waiting for the complete revelation,
    about the words they will say and unravel
    tongues engorged like a tame good-willed Cerberus,
    I don’t know, not quite, what they can do,
    but I’m excited to see how the utterances will
    help me,
    assist me,
    my mindset, my confidence to entirely return.

    Lovingly, achingly, away from me,
    I’ve made my childhood bed, and what about you,
    dear sir?
    Shall you rise from my head?
    A memory, a mere memory?
    No, shadowy darkness and smiles,
    spirits assured.

    Now drink to us.
    Both seemingly arisen from the dead.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.   
    (28/2/22)
    Photo by spirit111 on Pixabay.

  • poem: which side to choose? – 27/02/22

    poem: which side to choose? – 27/02/22

    by Lauren M. Hancock

    choosing which side to take,
    it’s really not that hard,
    to rise and rise with great distinction
    or to sink and remain at large.

    there’s no shame in being positive and pretty
    with my words I will conflate them, will engorge them
    with slim and shaded shadows
    the truth has already been forged,
    lusciously, freely.

    the time I take with every piece
    I spit it out as though an undesired precious dream,
    a nightmare in fact, some have come to be
    but only in my dwindling ill-durations,
    irreverently.

    have respect for some and respect for all
    but what matters most when you’re in the presence of ghosts
    who make you laugh and cry and everything in between
    is this truth in itself
    is this really what it seems?

    more so humankind who seemed to
    prey upon me
    seemed to play with my weaker points
    reading my life
    enabled the training
    those clicks and turns all the while
    delicately, indelicately?
    there’s nothing, just an indelible style.

    I did not, do not appreciate being treated
    with operant conditioning
    I am not an animal, I am myself
    I am a woman above and underneath
    and between.

    speak not of those sickening months and years
    nor my fears, anxiety, poor Jurassic tears
    there is nothing sycophantic
    in my words right now.

    I will rise and rise
    and you’ll see –
    you’ll see how far I’ll go.

    I have the tricks I have the honesty
    I, I have the expertise
    I have the know-how,
    I have it all,
    I possess my keys,
    whether high or low-brow.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay
    (27/02/22)

  • prose poetry: the turning tides – 26/02/22

    prose poetry: the turning tides – 26/02/22

    fighting against the turning tides, the waves rise and crash upon the open shore, begging for appeasement, begging the waves for more. The fish and seashells and mermaids and mermen crawl from well beyond the shore. There’s barely anything left upon the seabed, so tumultuous it has become indeed, from tridents these waves of terror have been sent, and wreaking upon my life the charlatans and evidence of danger all around, whose going to reinstate that purple crown? That glowing iridescence that lingers above my head, once there, once gone, and once again now dead, then revived all around?

    There are starfish lingering in the bed, in the crevasses, and one large, large star within my head.
    “I am terrific,” it says, “I am here and now, won’t you reveal, won’t you remain unashamed, somehow?” I smile to myself, for this pink and yellow starfish is actually amazing to me, she’s how I see, I breathe, I be, through the very evidence that is wrought deep within me. Myself as a mermaid, no, that is not right, I need to be five pointed and note-worthy, without means of a fight. And toss and turn now, deep within my rest, I grin widely now, because I feel blessed for having entered into this scene, this amazing joy it does bring, the tides crashing upon the shore, shall I ask for more, for more, for more?

    And now these dainty little crabs dance up from beneath the sand, left way this and right way that, they don’t want to hold hands, instead a conga line they proceed, with no difficulty, of course not, please, under the sea is where they will be, under their sea indeed. The tides will evermore change but they will still irrevocably remain the same. Precious beauty and pink and blue, with danger zones nil, just a rapid wash of hues. The sun shines down brightly today, this very day, and escape, escape I shall not, come whatever may.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay
    (26/02/22)

  • poem: daggers – 25/02/22

    poem: daggers – 25/02/22

    daggers in her eyes
    she is potent with her stare
    take a needle and thread and prick that evil eye
    with precise care
    the deepest blue you did ever see
    boring into her into me
    flight takin now
    irreverently
    disrespectful they’ve brought her, me,
    down to our knees

    bruises form
    it’s a part of our love
    delicate delicate pink gangly bird
    won’t you realise
    they don’t want you to go
    because it’s better off remaining
    in the syncing of our clarified minds
    the twins the twins
    what’s left of them
    decimated before they were even alive

    but this is the way it should be
    this is the way the
    countering of my feels
    I don’t have the right to procreate
    said she
    I don’t have the right to bring another
    into the world
    not with our lingering malignancy
    mental health disease

    I live in this haze of what’s right and
    what is wrong
    loaded bullet, baby,
    do not ever face that gun
    neither shine it on a spotlight
    you are not a martyr from kingdom come
    stop crying, what’s in your mouth,
    disgusting,
    let us come undone.
    (25/02/22).
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay

  • poem: to bloom – 24/02/22

    poem: to bloom – 24/02/22

    Image from Pixabay

    To bloom within means not unravelling oneself, not pulling apart the petals, but securing them to one’s own mooring, so she can be seen for who she truly is, and was and still is. Underneath all, she is full of goodness, despite the anger, the sadness, she has her own manner of charms. She has much love and charisma, but flowing over before the negative ascension and dramatic type of karma.

    Please do not misconstrue the shades which line her face, the complexion yellowing, a life and lives once gone, seemingly gone to waste, no, focus instead upon the glory within her saddened eyes, the glimmer of blue hope and the way her orbs take in the electric scope as she struggles with mental health and achieving a disguise. There were so many underhanded comments among her visit an other world, when wishing for a life with more ease.

    Reading and assessing her times, the pages lie quietly there with scribblings, handwritten notes, colour-coded, unknown is the manner in which she knows how to speak. Chaos be the matter, and chaos was at large. Largely within her mind, but certainly around her. around

    But she will be permitted to Heaven’s door one day, and asked not to leave but to continue to fight all affray, so yes, you are correct, she has not bloomed yet again again today, yesterday, nor directly this and another forthcoming day, but by goodness is she learning to co-exist and reconnect, and given the complex circumstances of her illness, that’s a mighty lot to achieve and say, she just sometimes needs to Vent.

    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay

  • Poem: serendipity – 21/02/22

    Poem: serendipity – 21/02/22

    Image from Pixabay

    There was serendipity one night,

    Fate was there to be seen.

    Through an hourglass or an oculus

    Spirits there to dream.

    But these were not pleasant,

    They stole away my breath,

    Gasp, hope,

    The murder they intended,

    Fearful,

    Nasty little boys,

    Irreverent scope.

    Will never happen,

    They will not achieve this intention,

    However ill meant.

    The pathways they are eradicating,

    Newest tunnelling,

    Funnelling,

    Like the spider that she was,

    No longer is,

    She loves in singular, not deuce,

    Never three,

    And for the whirling in her mind,

    Taps of coffee cups,

    One two and three,

    Been talking and talking

    All morning for hours,

    Please, won’t you let it be??

    (C) 2022. Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

  • new life

    what i need to do

    what im trying to do

    is clear the toxicity from my words and my mind

    its a journeying

    its a process

    humbling it is in style

    to wake up and realise how irreverent I’ve been

    so utterly disrespectful to the ones i love and need

    i am ruining them i have ruined them

    their hearts and minds within a dream

    by aching words i am now suffering

    feeling the pain at knowing what i said how i spoke

    was far less than comfortable or tame

    i can only bleed so much energy for i am splattering with ease

    the ink blots the chimney tops

    roar to life as burn pillage the hunted one

    but i am here i am resting relaxing my ailing mind

    and somehow ill know ILL KNOW that i will make it through again

    turning over those hinting leaves
    and reassuming my good goals

    (c) Copyright 2022. Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.

  • How to right the path of inhabitable processes?

    How to right the path of inhabitable processes

    Undo the damage during manic and psychotic catharsis

    Lay a shoulder on the gloom of my dear shoulder

    Which shoulders the weight of sharp words paranoia then inevitable inertia

    I can’t undo undo

    But I can address the well meant template

    Explain I am never usually, well, in this way

    I floss I floss in the river of gloom

    Now hiding in moments

    Adverbs of deep hushed blue

    Most mightn’t understand

    But I shouldn’t need to detail further processes

    Tektites and andromorohirs,

    good omens never ceased, no apparition.

    No apparitions indeed. Yet growing weary we remain steadfast

    This birthday suit we carry

    And in that moment my brain mind shifts

    Alchemy the lure permit the transformation to occur.

    (C) 2022 Lauren M Hancock. All rights reserved.

    .

  • poem: the matter be – 02/02/22

    poem: the matter be – 02/02/22


    astounding though the matter be,
    at least I can still think, breathe, sigh and see
    not many people can say this
    and not many can attend
    to this tiresome irksome being stuck inside
    my head

    she is me a part of me
    the opportunistic thoughts of me
    when I’m scrambling for power then I need to
    convalesce
    become redundant there
    that side of the world, I I lost my drive

    but in terms of general threaded consciousness

    I know I am able I know I am true
    I can pick the stitches as well as sew them
    even out the ripped turret
    surrounded by green eggs and Sam I Ams.

    Protection here from the finest I will survive this
    arduous path
    these words I struggle for sleep
    enough is enough
    life can be tiresome
    but for all the healing happiness in the world
    it’s worth it.
    (02/02/20)
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay

  • poem: pebble – 30/01/22

    poem: pebble – 30/01/22

    Holiday

    This stone
    this innocuous pebble breaks me breaks you, breaks us, apart
    tearing rolling down the barrel of a shotgun heart
    I may not know true heartache now but in the past that thing broke me
    pieces of an imperfect mosaic flew
    these shards of myself not smokable but certainly shattered and vein-like-blue

    fatigue of life overtakes
    all the same shade of off-white
    low stimuli but intensity building, built
    like a road of rubber tyres on fire
    a gigantic witch’s pyre
    though 21st century

    how I wish the mania hadn’t left me
    and this constant need to sleep
    because of the medication and gorged carbs

    plus lowest stimulation among irritating boy-like antagonism
    so that we become nothing much more than slugs of tired redemption
    or those on a happy carefree holiday
    I came in far worse than I currently have become now – a moth pathetically flapping now – luxurious slug style seemingly assumed now somehow.
    (30/01/22)
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
    Pixabay image credit 
    This post first appeared on Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose.