Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: confessional poetry

  • 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: 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: 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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  • Improvisational Poetry: “The Cacophony Cease!” – (Poem, Recording, Discussion) – 28/06/20

    Improvisational Poetry: “The Cacophony Cease!” – (Poem, Recording, Discussion) – 28/06/20

    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/the-cacophony-cease-spoken-word-poetryimprovisation-by-lauren-m-hancock
    Click image to listen to “The Cacophony Cease!” in browser or on SoundCloud.
    Method discussion below poem.

    "The Cacophony Cease!"

I feel the reverberation
through my fingertips,
through my bones,
into my marrow,
 
a source of quiet vitality in which I encase
certain memories,
certain experiences,
so potent and noxious
they should only be for me.
 
I won’t allow others to see or feel them,
to experience the anguish,
the pain,
the ecstasy,
that would prove far too much, you see.
 
Besides, it would be untoward.
it would be unwise,
to share everything with everyone
because there are moments
in our lives which we must keep private,
we must remain quiet,
these need to remain secretive, you see?
 
And suddenly here appears a character,
she’s beautiful,
dressed in lace and organza,
her dress flowing,
tulle behind her,
 
as she twirls and twirls and twirls,
like the fallen angel that she was,

she is,
she was,
she is,
she WAS!

She is?
 
Which one is it?
It shouldn’t really matter.
 
She’s on show and she knows
that she needs to put on her bravest face
that will ever be worn,
because this dress, this petticoat, this tulle
is just the theatrical,
she’s hiding something
but she twirls and twirls just as she knows how.
 
The cacophony is growing louder in my head,
ordering me to be quiet,
to not dare reveal as much;
not all needs to be shared.
 
Because attention is not always as important
as retaining as a sense of dignity,
the reputation of oneself,
 
and while dragging one’s experiences up and out,
back to life, can be contentious,
it’s not something which should be realised,
it may not leave the best impression.
 
It’s important to understand that where one has been
is not where one is,
and is not where one is going,
 
the future is where we should be flowing.
 
And that’s what I need to understand, always,
to look to the future,
to not always look behind to the past,
for sitting comfortably in the present and
aiming toward the future
is what I want,
is where I want to be.
 
These violent noises:
will the cacophony cease?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock (Recording: Words, Music and Artwork)
https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/the-cacophony-cease-spoken-word-poetryimprovisation-by-lauren-m-hancock
    My Process of Experimenting with Improvisational Poetry

When it comes to recording my poetry, usually I start with the words first and then record with or without a backing track. But I thought to myself last night, “Why don’t I start with a backing track and then just say whatever I want, on the spot and see what comes out?”

It really was an interesting process. I came up with many different concepts to accompany the chaotic piano key bashing I had recorded many years prior during the height of a bipolar relapse. 

In these improvisations, I spoke of my condition, I spoke of interrupted dreams and nightmares, I spoke of the sense of self, I spoke of creation. Many things. The problem was, there were parts of the recordings I liked, but others which I did not, such as when I would fumble, or when my ideas didn’t flow nicely, or were rather unimaginative. Within the errors though, were some great ideas I could have reused, but I just kept recording on and on without noting down the phrasings which I did feel were successful.

As you might have noticed, as of late, I have been exploring my life by taking steps backward and assessing what has been, what should not have been, and now, what is, and what could be. Letting my words flow through my consciousness like a river or stream allowed me to explore what's on my mind, and what I deem as important at this current time for my work. 

I finally tentatively settled upon one recording and put it up last night just as a draft to review it in the morning. I felt it was good, but not quite strong enough, so I set about writing out the script of my words, then adding and editing and subtracting. There was not much rewording. 

Thus, here is the result of my improvisation efforts from last night and this morning. Please have a listen to “The Cacophony Cease!” I hope you enjoy it.

I enjoyed the creative process myself.

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