from the depths of my soul
from the gateways of my being
I shudder with anger
distilling through me
its not purely the behaviour that perturbs
it’s the repeat offending that I know will remain
present and untoward
some will never change
this I hold true
pity me for believing:
I am a true fool.
Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
As I sit in my rocking chair
I ponder to myself,
what is there to contemplate or even know,
how should I proceed in life,
these stumbling blocks keep coming,
they are rife,
and they trash my days and hours,
slitting them open like warm butter
attacked with a knife.
Eyes within, they glower,
witnesses who think they know me more than me,
so much better,
they glance upon with mediocrity in their eyes,
pity begins to flower.
I cannot help myself,
despairing feelings overwhelm,
they irritate and sadden me all
at the same time,
emotions coagulate,
they brew inside of me,
whilst the others watch on freely,
I’m ashamed in this moment
to be such a sensitive entity.
Because usually, generally,
I am adamant,
I do not let damp sadness get the
better of me,
and yet
here I am,
looking out upon myself,
like a sad sack of sand on the pavement,
where is my power,
my strident ability to rise above
this ailment?
Still, I sit,
rock and rock away,
mechanically, forward and back,
whiling away the day,
and eventually, the aches and groans internally
might fade away,
there’s no room for brightness but
at least the clouds have maybe cleared
for the day.
And perhaps this is all a mere moment which will
pass away,
the gloom will leave this room,
this mental space, cavity, prison, I’ve assumed,
soon I will take the reins
and ride forward, tossing my mane here and there,
astride will I ride into battle
without a single care.
And then I will pre-empt the almighty force
that beckons and crawls to me
making me feel so unassured,
I will become belligerent toward the pain,
I will hunt it down,
I will triumph above,
sadness squeals in vain,
how about that,
I tell the witnesses,
as I dismount my beast,
evermore the battlefields with my
courage and valiant honour
are stained,
I have allowed them to see
the true me.
© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo from Pexels
Imagine there was something which could easily read the words of your heart. Your joys, your aching, your frustration, and the spaces you keep for precious, invaluable art. Those masterpieces of memories and experiences which you love to hold, turn them over in hands again and again, mesmerised, decisive, the experiences are able to be re-lived this way fruitfully, truth be told.
You can inspect these cubes, forms, or spheres, or perhaps for you, they’re nondescript, simple constructs, in your mind they can exist, in an eye’s blink they can then disappear. Almost in a meditative state, overwhelming emotions draw near, enveloping you, reminding you that internally we are all stars. Filled with spark and brightness, our glowing memories can be seen – or at least felt – from afar, and if one extends to another, perhaps both will gain miraculous, shooting energy which never shall mar.
Who can easily read your heart? Which methods will permit entry into your hidden compacts of art? Will you allow the mirror to open, to unclasp and reveal their reflection with yours, unbroken? Or will your memories remain purely yours, until you grow older, and they slowly grow forgotten?
Only allow others in when the feeling encompasses your being with the meaning and understanding that your heart wants to be seen. Sharing is loving, until the stark morning, but sometimes we want ourselves to let it be.
© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Anete Lusina from Pexels
Sustaining the high energy
of the beautiful vitality within thy soul,
watch as it trickles through the gaps visible
in the aura that surrounds you whole.
You are wonderful just the way you are,
the courteous, gentle being who sings slightly off-key,
it is permissible to be less than perfect,
because this is what I have to say freely:
Imperfection is beauty, as a wise woman once had said,
your perfection lies in the moments when your heart is beating –
that’s always…
You easily keep promises to yourself,
honouring what you call for,
what you beg for with a smile,
more, and more, and more…
The grimaces are gone,
they are done for, done for,
that’s what I have to say,
and treasured is everything, partially,
of what I know,
expressions of true friendship, always.
It seems that specific people will always be there
for me,
it appears that they aren’t the ones
who we expected them to be,
but I treasure the new alliances made,
I am safe to be safe, as are you.
It is safe for us to live in these bodies,
it is acceptable and right to express ourselves,
we should appreciate our splendid uniqueness,
and when the flight of our souls occurs,
we shall grasp our lives again whole.
© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash
He hoards not objects,
not physical implements
but emotions,
he caresses them,
they express their feelings
heard and meant.
He greedily
takes these from others,
swipe, snatch, grab,
one hand carries the contents of
another’s heavy heart,
another carries pain and loathing
in the other hand
which seems it shan’t ever depart.
Into a precious round
glass bowl he places
extracted stolen feelings
watching them swirl;
it gives him a mildly pleased feeling
as though he’s appeased
his internal sufferings
by borrowing –
that’s what he calls it –
emotions which he will supervise
until the morning.
Because he only needs
access to these
for a night and a day,
it is his means of survival,
his nutritional content,
shall we say?
He feeds off other’s expressions
because truly, he cannot
forgive nor accept his own transgressions.
He needs to heal himself
with the emotions of others
as though patchwork sewn,
slapped on,
to disguise the
holes within his cloudy aura.
He is tainted by prior actions,
and he repairs himself
temporarily with that
which is stolen,
it’s enough to please him
until the coming of morning.
And then he will
hunt and hoard again,
applying that to whichever part of himself
is sadly and ostensibly broken.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Joseph Frank on Unsplash
Join me also at:
When will you realise that to be elegantly numb is not courageous but is rather like dragging fingernails across a broken board? I understand the need to be empty and without feeling, but this is not something to aim for, best be open in what one is saying, drag forth the pain and suffering to the morning, to be laid upon the ground to be judged in its sheer distress, an understanding that really, being unfeeling is nothing to reach for, you must, we must keep deeply breathing. To be elegant is to be stylish, graceful, beautiful, to be numb, without any feeling, is quite the opposite, I feel – why aim for this? Some may think that it is a purposeful venture, that there is melody in winding with notes of brutal, unspoken tunes to be slotted together in a row, a personal choir, an understanding that while magic can rise forth from between their lips, to be numb inside, for the creation of music of the soul, it is counterintuitive. Rise forth from the personal gloom! Let us improve our lives as we see fit, and by that, I mean elevating our roles which are not living for pain and suffering – sometimes it is inevitable, these sorrows in life, but it is not outside of our means to alter our perspective. While one woman may be ailing from physical suffering, another from emotional distress – aren’t the overall effects the same thing? And really, understanding that the viewpoint could need altering to envelop these women and pillow-soften them from their suffering, it is so important to consider and see. But, there is no reason to make yourself numb simply so you cannot feel, understand the circumstances of your life better, analyse them, truth be told, be bold, and know that the while the circumstances may not change, the reaction is coming solely from you. Open the structure of your heart, allow access, and make others feel not your distress, but view your kindness and worth plain to see, you’re art, you always were, allow your heartbeat to run and run, and now, with feeling, breathe. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by Ankhesenamun on Unsplash
Join me also at:
Jealousy, for some it’s serpent green, coils around the heart, constricting breath, lungfuls into parts. But, Hope, for me it’s amber, she’s millions of years old, and so much she has captured she’s not a gem but like royalty she’s treated as such. Hate, for me, deep red, blood-like, thickened, coagulating, too thick to even be dripping. Sunshine yellow Joy, brightened, bold she screams daisies and wattles and pollen and bees bees bees who hunt all on their own. Panic, sheer panic a crimson mixed with mauve and deep purple, they clash, no jiving, but oh, they make me feel so riled. Anxiety is blue, a strange colour, I’d usually assign it to melancholy, depressive hues, but this blue is muddy it’s unpleasant, makes me squirm, uncomfortable, I want to kick away the irksome gloom, wish for another less patent leathery day. And Mania, she's all shades of fluro, all colours of the rainbow glaring and glowing, she stings my irises constrict my pupils her presence is a hindrance but she's utterly tempting; I stare and stare… But Jealousy, he wants to lead the pack, Why? His neck coils around mine decorating me like a Medusa after the fact I hiss him away I don’t need us to conjoin or with my innocent heart forcefully entwine. I want my moods and colours, to remain with me in compartmentalised ways, each mood and hue have its own place, I lay my head down to rest, I’ll experience the colours another day. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Pexels from Pixabay
View YouTube poem video: ‘The Colours’ by Lauren M. Hancock
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Unknowing of where you’ve been, where have you travelled? Where has your mind taken you? Is it to the edge of your despair? Are you aching, begging to be heard without any actual words? Misunderstood, underappreciated? Does this strike a chord? Do you wish you could move on quicker to achieve your goals within your dreams? Is there a hollow in you needing to be filled? Measurements two by two, or maybe just a clearer view. I hate to see you in distress, you feel you hide it well, and from the world you want to encase yourself, a solid armour, self-protection still, where the wind and sound will rush over your body and not even care, you will find that anonymity there. And huddled in the tunnel you’ll be, against the thick of a storm which strangely frees you from hefty concerns and worries which drag, drag you down, and now you’re just a molecule or a large particle against which beats the busy air. I can sense your freedom now in the darkness, in the shadows of that tunnel, some may find such a situation claustrophobic, atrocious, but you, dear, are released by the air, being pounded by winds is no trouble, each gust dispels care upon care. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Genty from Pixabay
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
You must be logged in to post a comment.