Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: confessional

  • Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Poem: Unhealthy: A Confession – Spoken Word and Text – 14/07/20

    Audio: Unhealthy
    I am appalled,
I have failed to secure or retain
a personal connection,
a fallen notion,
an untidy, needy calling.

Why does my desire to be considered,
to be seen without trigger
exist, a stifling need woven like poison ivy
around a body and mind so disheartened?

How to dispel my lofty expectations
and allow the rain
to fall upon myself,
some cleansing gratitude,
I have spoken of this before,
now again this needs to be acknowledged,
deemed as righteous self-care and to the core.

My eyelids begin to droop,
my mind has abruptly flipped its switch,
medication has settled in,
it may be time to cease this
emotional barrage,
I’m disrupted behind this blank, calm mask,
no, now is the time for my redemption,
I’ve struggled to be myself,
to not lean upon others for self-worth;
I’ve been like this for years.

Caring eternally for opinions
can be stifling and drain the life from me,
even those whom I shouldn’t care for,
shouldn’t be concerned about nor mind,
I'll secretly consider what’s on their minds,
though we may be different,
we are still from the same ilk,
members of humankind.

A collective smile,
a happy family of viewers,
then frowns and bemused looks from
some unmoved, disapproving beings,
subtle trends of purposeful silence,
I am not subtle,
I am loud, and proud, and obnoxious
or at least that’s how I portray the dramatics.

Because, this is who I am,
it is a prickly part of me,
the indelicate balance of showy
need for approval,
for acknowledgement,
with the desire to be
proud and confident and not care,
at least neediness has lessened over the years.

But what pains me most is that
I cannot stop caring,
be it due to my annoyance or curiosity,
I want to please others,
so much so that it’s unhealthy.

I could sit before a psychologist and
allow myself to be willingly
scrutinised and analysed,
but, I view no point in this,
these traits are heavily ingrained in me.

Through years and encounters of 
desperately desired equality,
having been taken for a ride
because my mind was immature,
naive,
self-esteem fragile,
I was unwitting.

Thank God I'm finally waking up.

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

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  • Poem: Writing to Escape – Spoken Word and Text – 12/07/20

    Poem: Writing to Escape – Spoken Word and Text – 12/07/20

    Audio: Writing to Escape
    As I sit down to write,
my muscles ease,
feet arrange neatly into place,
my fingers at the ready.
 
This is my time,
where I will shine with tendrils
of arrangements that are 
written not only for me,
but for others, too,
I don’t simply write for myself,
I have a sense of duty to them,
for from within me,
like a geyser I expel my truths.
 
Confessionals, confessionals,
my autobiographical poems,
they’re the one and the same to me,
I do not aim at whetting the appetite
however, I do wish to flood certain seas.
 
To share and to reveal is something 
deemed worthwhile,
perhaps I’ll reach many or a few,
maybe my words will resonate with them,
their circumstances conjoining with mine, also,
 
and as I sit down to write, I am focused,
I have great intention,
and I know that what I produce 
will be the best I can
arrange for myself this very night,
I need to be left alone,
quietly,
without any intervention.
 
Because interruptions,
these cause me great distress,
I’m sitting here recording,
on and on,
because at subtle turns I make verbal slips,
new recording!
I’m doing my best,

if an unsuspecting arrival were to 
rudely arrive at the door,
I’d be mortified,
I already fear being heard and
viewed as conceited,
for the words I record and record,
that speak only of me.
 
But this exploration of myself,
as I sit down to write,
no longer to edit and read,
to analyse the past, the present,
upon a platter, display the future,
and anything in between,
 
the haphazard nature of rabbit traps
and paw prints leading into them,
I guess the rabbit was not so wily,
she needed to be a little more observant.
 
This rabbit danced around those traps,
now look, she’s here, whole in whole,
to be seen.  

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

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  • Poem: The Punishment – 06/07/20

    Poem: The Punishment – 06/07/20

    Author's note: This poem details a point in my mental health journey where I was hospitalised for extreme mania, grand delusions and psychosis. These could not be controlled with time and much medication, hence I was subjected to the often-controversial practice of electro-convulsive therapy. The poet whom I speak of in my poem is extremely well-known, and those who can ascertain who I am discussing will understand certain references I make. 

My pills were the colours of the rainbow
oh, this was how I celebrated them,
the nurses delivered me my
morn and nacht medications,
the colours, the shades,
white, pink, purple, yellow,
so bright,
so visually pleasing were they.
 
When they needed to add another pill,
I did not anger, I did not dismay,
for they were simply 
increasing my brightness,
this concept assisted me 
to cope throughout my manic days.
 
I would bounce around,
here and there,
up and down,
in the ward where I was
the starring show,
 
or at least this was how
I thought of myself,
I was probably to most
an irritating bother.
 
I’d sing and sing,
for the joy of singing aloud,
there was little to do 
within the ward,
we had to entertain ourselves
with personal endeavours somehow,
 
or simply jump and jump from
one person to another,
conversation flitting about.
 
There were different types
of white pills,
a mood stabiliser,
an anti-psychotic,
another anti-psychotic,
how I was being loaded,
 
but my clever over-active mind
would not be dulled,
until they administered the
foreign electrodes.
 
I thought they were hoping to 
kill the magic
inside of me,
my creative streak,
the inspired side of me,
 
that they were aiming to
punish me
for trying to be like her,
my idol,
 
for emulating her style,
was this a 
warranted punishment
in itself?
 
To rid me of my toxic bite,
my ability to snipe and snarl
within my writes,

was I worthy of being punished
when all I did was admire,
and allowed myself to be
swayed, swayed, swayed
by her words?
 
I am guilty only of that crime,
is inspiration and idolising a curse?
 
And this doctor, with his 
trimmed Hitler-like mustache,
an obvious portrayal by the hospital,
an inside 'joke',
that a significant part of little me, 
was maybe 
bound for the hearse,
 
helpless at his cruel, 
well-trained hands
as a crowd of medical students
stood curiously around me,
without my prior consent,
 
I hysterically, hopelessly
wept, and wept, and wept.
 
Students' eyes signalled pity,
perhaps I was like a 
caged animal to be seen,
no escape, yet no 
true reason for being here,
this was what I firmly believed.
 
Here goes my skill,
I thought,
all because I fell ill.
It wasn’t my fault,
but it might have been,
somehow, inadvertently.
 
Where is the comfort 
of my rainbow now?
I wondered to myself.

There was no escape, 
my eyelids hung themselves
as the cool anesthetic 
entered my vein. 

I need not worry now
whether I would wake up, 
stripped of her influence,
only myself, 
or if I'd ever wake up again.   

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

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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: 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: 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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