Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: creative writing

  • Poem: Scent of an Aura – 23/01/20

    Poem: Scent of an Aura – 23/01/20

    I love the scent which surrounds you,
your aura glows with meaning,
permeating your outer shell with reinforced support,
reassurance and kindness.
You can try to fix my problems and aid my
floaty, fanciful dreams
but you know that this is not the right method for me.
 
You take my brokenness and allow it to be a beautiful view,
though still in pieces, you understand it’s my role
to rearrange myself into something more
positive, useful,
that to allow transmutation through your hands would be wrong,
it is for me to wield the vision here,
hold me close as I once more transform,
I love the scent when you hold me in your arms.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: An Arresting Freedom – 23/01/20

    Poem: An Arresting Freedom – 23/01/20

    Teeming with truth is the garden pond beneath me,
little goldfishes and ginormous catfish sharing the same muck,
and breathing the same strangling air.
There is no poisoning permitted within their world,
no time for man-made deaths,
perilously cold, creations of old.

They have this amazing ability of not bumping into one another,
as though they understand the nature of truth-transportation,
within their minds, within their scales,
there lay the makings of something frantic yet strangely calming.
 
I unwind myself and my stress around the edges here,
simply speaking, as naked as marked by my worldly arrival,
I bear the tidings of youth and the addled nature of age,
paperweights upon my important documentation,
leafing through the pitfalls and milestones,
such a young age I was when it began,
much mental anguish to have unravelled.   
 
These documents are meant to reflect the truth
but they speak of others’ interpretations,
naught of my own cacophony and musings,
I am wound and wound by their looping,
their incoherent inked ramblings,
their medical terminology to describe
how I am presenting.
Nonsense! I am not a category three or five anything.
 
I am more like a butterfly in that storm,
where I gracefully flit to flit to dream to dream,
and explore the deft nature of mental health
and their well-versed world,
explanation upon explanation
of what I am,
what illness I have become
because, that’s just it,
labels weigh down, they laden.
 
A butterfly finds little comfort in human inscribed notes and details,
instead, she takes delight in soaring, higher and higher,
taking that particular note with her, and then,
with a release of her limbs,
the letter flutters down, further, and further,
until no one knows where it went.   
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

    Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

    When I am slighted, I can become cruel. My words spit forth with venom; I cannot help my purging. It is as though I need to get them out, in order to stop the poison taking effect upon myself, my soul, and in doing so I hurt others by means of my cathartic process. Afterwards I should feel remorseful, but, not yet, not yet, a lone raven calls, not yet, my dear, we have to await The Fall.
 
What is The Fall, you may ask? Let me explain simply, The Fall is when everything culminates and crumbles from a formidable boulder into shattered, tiny pieces, the strong once broken, forming mere pebbles settling into dust clouds, which really are unsettling. My exterior, strong and generally kind, now turned cold as of recent times, has been dismembered into gravelly limbs and such that really, didn’t need any adjustment at all. I had pooled my energies and forced myself into intensely focusing on one or two tasks alone, and in doing so, my stresses had increased tenfold. And the way I perceived being treated or mistreated really spoke volumes to my self-harassed being. I convinced myself that I was the most obvious victim.
 
So, essentially speaking, The Fall is when one falls apart. Strictly speaking, symptoms are as such, when I rock the boat slightly, testing the waters, then finding it fine, I start pressing back and forth violently, making certain I am causing a commotion, then suddenly the boat keels over and the only air pocket is the oxygen underneath the boat.
 
I must breathe into this prison,
For without breath there is no hope.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Prose: Perseverance, a Reflection – 22/01/20

    Prose: Perseverance, a Reflection – 22/01/20

    I urge myself to persevere. It is the only possible route to take. Of course, wallowing and huddling in bed is an option, but it’s not one I would readily like to select. One can only indulge in so much melancholy and shutting oneself off from the world until enough is enough. It’s time to get up, get out, speak loudly, with sumptuous sounds and absorb all that life is offering. And once out of bed, dressed and ready to exit my home – alone, mind you, I am rarely alone – and I take the first step outside that I’ve made in days. I’ve been holed up inside the house writing poem upon frustrated poem, with vicious words and synergies, and little positive to say.
 
But now, outside, the wind rushes around my face and my body, whipping my shoulder length hair that’s been begging for a cut for weeks, perhaps even months. I take in the sumptuous feeling, it’s as though I’m in the eye of the storm and I am the axis around which everything of this wind’s rich tone colours are centring. I throw my arms outward with abandon — who knew such a feeling was awaiting me? The power of Nature’s amazing force, right here before, behind, all around me. And I feel as though I’m being cleansed, vacuumed away of the negativity, the solid space that wreaked my interior for the last durations, times which I cannot take back. Only can I learn from them.

Playful now becomes the mood, and I laughingly pronounce an rrr, rrr, rrr, to try my voice again. My imagination presents me a playful slick seal begging to be rubbed on his belly or his back, his whiskers tickling my cheeks as, in my mind, I give him a big kiss upon his face. He does not turn away, he pokes out his tongue instead, and joins in with the Rrrrrrr’s of being pleased in the moment, and finally I realise I’ve done it, with this wind, with this amazingly fresh gusting breeze, with my odd imagination, I am cleansed and revitalised once more, no need for aggressive expressions, no need, anymore.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: The Yew Tree – 21/01/20

    Poem: The Yew Tree – 21/01/20

     A distinguished yew tree silently stands before me, 
 speaking of regeneration and rebirth 
 and all that is everlasting, 
 within my heart it resides, 
 while monumental, it is a temporary fixture, 
 nonetheless an awe-inspiring picture.
  
 Who planted this reminder for me, to never give up? 
 A sign that, during times of impassioned illness and 
 ill choices there is still hope?
 The yew promises me time will continue on, 
 and there will always be that turning point known as Hope. 
  
 My mind aches at the thought of beings once in my world,
 who, in their dilapidated state could not draw themselves 
 away from the saddening muck that stills their lives,
 some remain happy to exist in their quagmire,
 they feel their current situation is something to treasure.
  
 There is no sign of a yew for them to never give up, 
 any hope for advancement has sadly been pinned down.
 Talk of hopes and dreams is dismissively cast aside, 
 too difficult, too unattainable, unmanageable,
 by their own reasoning.
  
 I want to show them my yew.
 I wish to inspire them, too.
  
 Had I remained sunken in my mud pit,
 I may have drowned like the rest of them,
 a reflection into an ability of an awful mentality,
 dark times, though infrequent, featured, 
 clouded heavily. 
  
 Now, my tree becomes a home for my thoughts,
 within its leaves and branches I bury my phrases, 
 my toiled words, my loose metaphors,
 because maybe at a later point,
 they’ll come in handy,
 or at least perhaps they’ll remain as personal pictures, 
 destined to become tidy and used mindfully.   
  
 © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
 All images signed “LMH” 
 are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock 
 and all rights reserved. 

 Image by Ilona Ilyés from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Crossed Lines – 21/01/20

    Poem: Crossed Lines – 21/01/20

    Depression hits my aura like a stoning
I crumble beneath the view
fetal-like
shell-shocked
I’m trying but my best is never good enough
seemingly humoured toward the end.
 
Your life is different to mine,
and while I am thankful for some memories
I want to curl tighter and tighter,
keep you away
I’d be lying if I said you entirely caused the hurting.
 
When it came time, I felt no cord being severed
it had already vanished from existence,
entangled lines once wound like vintage telephone cords
neatly arranged in little camps of yours and mine.
 
And while I can comfort myself with bitter feelings
of how I was so hard done by and mistreated
for the most part it’s tiresome mind-trickery nonsense
only truly applicable to when the gradual silence 
decided to speak.
 
And it haunts, it haunted,
billowing in the chambers of my mind,
when I recall times when our hearts were perfectly entwined,
but letting go of each other,
we both really didn’t seem to mind.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: From Wept Parchment to Wonder – 19/01/20

    Poem: From Wept Parchment to Wonder – 19/01/20

    I am exhausted. Tired of the crowd’s prying eyes when all
I’m doing is wallowing and huddling.
I want nothing more than 
this sharp oversensitiveness of my skin
to stop this crawling feeling,
because I can feel the touches,
the curious fingertips dragging,
on the skin of a woman made of parchment
who bears her interior just enough,
just enough to cause criticism.
 
Though, that wasn’t her,
sorry,
my intention,
and I watch my parchment weep from my arms,
my forehead,
my torso,
catching the sheets, I frantically scrawl and scrawl
before I forget the present thought processes,
I wish to save them all.
 
They are precious to me,
if inapplicable to others,
I am still allowed to self-indulge.  
 
Written words can silence me with their beautiful calligraphy
and I learn from sources beyond the nearby gumtree or nearest paperbacks,
I seek to learn from the greatest, who titillate my senses,
now raised goosebumps upon my sensitive paper-thin skin,
it no longer crawls with distastefulness but instead
it is inspired.
 
I read and read,
absorbing skillful words, and wanting nothing more than appreciation and
education from those far finer in skill than I,
poised with vocabularies resplendent and fuller than a flushed Renaissance bosom,
I shudder with appreciation
I love this feeling
it is one of great calling.
 
And inspired once more,
my exhaustion all but forgotten,
I bind myself with tight parchment bandages
and set my pen into sight.
I am ready,
I will recommence my style,
flowered by the blossoming of others' inspiration,
all it takes it that certain escape,
a wondrous trip out into the open.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Loyal Sun, a Faithful Man – 19/01/20

    Poem: A Loyal Sun, a Faithful Man – 19/01/20

    Hey, let us not be so hasty,
let us not be so rash.
Instead, let us flow with the sun and the wind 
entwined as one,
woven with thrice strands,
a plaiting of joyous warmth, breeze, and cheer 
neatly entangled by a pair of deft, invisible hands.    
 
I admire the sun for the effort she makes each day,
no matter how low or despondent she may feel,
she always rises for us,
no matter anything, she won’t allow the world to weigh her down.
 
Nothing troublesome seems to cross her path,
or get in her way,
she is never dismayed, at least not visibly
but into confused darkness we may be thrust 
when considering what lies in the heart of another
when we don't know precisely what causes their pain, joy, ecstasy, or sorrow.
 
The sun always brings a burning intensity,
if we were to bring ourselves 
close enough to the fair maiden,
we too could experience her true potential of expression
though, she insists on brightening the way for her king,
she selects the path of righteousness; she promotes his healthy well-being.
 
Sun shines her cordiality onto the path which is set
for a man of great mystery, 
perhaps of deep melancholy
but someone definitely dusted with
the makings of luminescent mastery,
make way now, it is evening, it's time to introduce 
the Man of the Moon.
 
She and he share the same skies during the light of day, but at night,
his lost lover is nowhere to be seen, she has upped and away.
His misery at being permitted nary a moment with her,
only observing Sun during the clouded skies from afar,
a teasing of his heart which 
miserably plucks at guitar strings,
breaking the strums into dismayed delayed arpeggios 
rather than solid ringing chords.
 
Heartbroken, the Man of the Moon waits for her all night,
glowing hopefully, yearning, silently begging
for her to rise and turn her wondrous face his way,
but then the night winds to an end,
erasing any fervent hope, now an empty lull in his heart,
he will reposition himself where he now belongs,
and soon, Sun returns to the blue skies,
just out of reach from her admiring love.
 
Let us not be so hasty, I repeat in a whisper,
let us explore the beauty of this day and morning, 
again with wild abandon,
because while time now seems so slow
it is succinct in its fleeting moments and is amazingly precious,
don’t allow these days to pass us by,
I want to remember our times 
when our hearts were as broad
as Sun's grinning orange-quartered mouth,
filled with the tartness of freshly squeezed juice 
and the vitality of our youth.

The sun smiles down upon us and gives me 
a mischievous wink as though she wholeheartedly agrees.    
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by Tarishart from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Heavy Bass – 18/01/20

    Poem: The Heavy Bass – 18/01/20

    I feel the beat within my veins,
Vibrations, thrown off syncopation,
They pull me from edge to edge,
Paper thin and treacherous they betray the solid beats,
An insistence of one-two-three-four,
Heavy pounding, bass throbbing.
 
Then, the lyrics,
Divine,
Singing of being unbreakable,
Is that what we are?
Are we made of such strength that 
none can step forth and shatter us  
into insignificant pieces?
Of course, that’s how some of us are,
Of course: that’s how we are wired.
 
I admire the dance I envision in my mind's eye,
The mass of revellers lost in moments of trance,
Smiles wide, grins spread, arms up to the flashing show of lights,
Taking in the stream of pure bliss and excitability,
Just a spin around and around and around
Ecstatic at living and breathing life as they dream freely.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by 453169 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: A Morning Song – 18/01/20

    Poem: A Morning Song – 18/01/20

    I am inspired by experience, 
because that’s the richness that I have,
using my moments as potent fuel,
a propellant, on the fire of dry bracken and chopped wood.
Steady cracking ensues,
and I can feel the force of heat throwing me back.
 
Sometimes, some may feel burned
by the stinging insults aimed toward another,
or my apparent self-indulgence or lack of personal insight
that is fanning the growing fire.  
 
I understand that sometimes my words may also 
feel like a vice,
squashing you, contorting you into 
tinier and smaller pieces,
such discomfort to glean from assessing certain wordings,
you may wish to readily escape.
 
But I am enriched by the fire within my soul,
and though I rarely detail positive moments,
I can assure you I am a happy, bright bubbly girl,
just a poet who has leanings toward 
darker and distressing tones and subjects,
I bear viewable insults and assessments 
with acceptance and mild relevance.

For none can take me down  
if I care little for cruel or harsh critique,
I will sing my songs,
no matter their potency,
my hand will not waver,
and my voice, it will carry on,
I’ll continue to speak.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

Image by Dikky Oesin from Pixabay

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