Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: insomnia

  • Stream: Wiccan cries: Open letter – 30/12/21

    Stream: Wiccan cries: Open letter – 30/12/21

    Photo by Olya Kobruseva on Pexels.com

    sleep deprived I layer myself with ease
    carrying the threads of foxy foxy actions
    I smile and try to relax their knees
    they become weak.
    I do not know the true cause
    the truest heartbreak anthem
    which rides upon your throat
    but this is to the ones closest
    dear leaves, leaves from the scene
    exit stage left.

    slowly, slowly, deludedly, she unravels the past,
    deciphering not much at first, but then, at half mast,
    between the sleep, it all makes sense.
    she is enabled, she is untoward,
    she is unpopular but she is loved
    and that’s all that matters.

    the special ones will come, trust me on that.
    there are just different stages to be sent,
    to be scene, to be signed off, my darling,
    read my lips, I’m over the rorting, the commotions,
    the derelict ascensions,
    take down the falsehoods and live live live<
    roar, the cycles cry, the world of darkness flies
    she petters them away like undesired times,
    because, in her mind,

    she’d wiped them away, with regal style
    her heart wanders into her starry eyes,
    she’s all the way up toward the moon,
    the moon, is this all we can and will speak of,
    the wiccan cries, her witch-familiar sits upon his hind legs and smiles.
    smiles. She will stay within, stay home, just for a little while.

    Copyright 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

  • Poem: dirty fatigue – 11/12/21

    Poem: dirty fatigue – 11/12/21

    fatigue washes over me
    like a deadly dirty sin
    engulfing me embodying me
    takes its fill of me in
    my vision how it blurs
    swaying leaning I reach forth
    unintentionally, of course
    im falling im falling in a manner
    completely unacceptable
    breaking me
    there’s no such thing as monotony

    I fall asleep in place
    sitting up
    apparent hours minutes seconds seem to race
    i’m broken yet oddly assured that I’ll at least
    succeed at gaining some rest
    the writing that ordinarily takes ten minutes to pen
    fifteen minutes left until the almost-full hour
    disjointed thoughts and messages jotted
    now to entertain.

    I will not cry I will not moan
    victim mentality is not in my being known
    I do not know why I am suffering this way
    though, three to four hours a night
    each rest is broken like shattered pavement
    beneath my bare toes

    concentration is a joke
    my eyes my mind travels
    traverse their own wanderlust
    and walking ahead upon a path
    noticing men and women canoodling
    at half-mast
    I cannot ascertain fully what is occurring
    inside my brain
    though I suspect, ascertain, hypomanic is
    the state.

    shall we lead into mania,
    I wonder to myself,
    this polar extreme highlighted by my fervent actions
    frantically creating unto myself
    but there comes a point where I must
    Slow. It. Down.
    I do not know I do not know
    how to escape this vicious cycle
    or, am I meant to simply deal with it
    on my own?

    the moral support which
    could be provided
    is severely unacceptable
    for some assessments are rubbish
    wanting me to be under a yowling’s affair
    instead:
    tik tok tik tok laissez-faire
    rare visitations to my foreign bed.

    Original artwork by myself.
    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    (10/12/21)

    Previous Post: boy, what’s your name again? -10/12/21
    clear to see – 10/12/21

    Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

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  • Poem/Spoken Word: insomniac – 15/11/21

    Poem/Spoken Word: insomniac – 15/11/21

    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/insomniac-spoken-word-poetry-lauren-m-hancock-poet?si=58885ed1c26a4a01a49aa22af11d87d3

    never again will I allow myself
    to fall upon the railway sleepers
    walking insomniac nightly
    anything but a daydreamer
    eyes wide, hollowed, intrigued, not:
    I will follow the path of rightness –

    aliveness and damnation? NO
    attack that silence and go.

    zombified, staring at the keys
    pretending to be straight when my intent
    is bent
    sniggering to myself
    boy am I so clever
    im going under
    into the depths of my distress

    and I would smile
    because the outcome
    it’s what I ached for all the while
    risking shuddering intentionally pondering
    conundrum on the surface
    and complexities within

    insomniac insomniac what do you feel
    when you glance within
    take a squiz
    sip of gin
    spit out that poison
    I don’t need to taste it
    the only poison I need
    is yours and mine
    to feel so vibrant
    to feel so alive.
    (14/11/21)
    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

    Previous Post: carry on – 14/11/21

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  • Prose Poetry: Elusive Sleep – 03/08/21

    Prose Poetry: Elusive Sleep – 03/08/21

    Sleep. How it escapes, evades my very fingertips. When I reach out, fingernails scrabbling, hoping for a hint of rest, my aching heavy lids are calling. I am in a state of unrest, my mind is anything but heightened, I need the numbness to wash over me, repair the intensity from the day prior. I need to rest, but, I cannot, I cannot will myself into a state of slumber. Sometimes I am stubborn and don’t wish for the darkened cover, for haven in darkness, dangling from consciousness’ precipice until the web is severed, and I’m beneath, in the lake of swimming nightmares with the rest of them.

    I do not need sleep, or does sleep need me? Preposterous, this claim, it does seem. The very fabric of my mind is wearing ragged and thin, existing in a state of stunned surprise when I force my eyes wide and brighten them to take my surroundings in. Taking in their fill. But unappreciative, as a slight, because I was told sight was not urgent, improvements were required but not yet, and so, I exist on a diet of blurred visions and occasionally barked words.  

    But Sleep, my antisocial friend, who only wants to attend for four hours or five, then sweep himself away, without a word to say, leaving me groggy, thirsty, and ill at ease in the dead of night, wishing for even an extra hour that he had stayed. Quality sleep never comes, in fact, so rarely does he attend that some cruel puppet master might as will be silently phasing out the timbre. Yellow, yellow, what a beautiful colour. Yellow conjures up such a cheery disposition, a shining timbre.

    Oh, how I need sleep, before I launch into emotions, feelings, about colour association, so replete!

    © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Photo by Megan te Boekhorst on Unsplash

    Previous Post: Living my Best Life – 01/08/21

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  • Poem: Quelled – 22/08/20

    Poem: Quelled – 22/08/20

    Night time should promise depth,
and warmth, and promises,
whispers of sweet tomorrows, and
tight caresses,
dreams, and deep rest,
instead: 
three hour’s sleep,
then wide awake in the same evening,
sleeping for half hour shifts,
then rising, eyes searching for the time,
wishing it were later, silently begging.
 
This sleep pattern is skewed,
it is all over the place,
I am suffering each night,
nocturnal, without wishing to rise so early or late,
what I would give for a solid night’s sleep,
my eyes are bloodshot,
dreary,
if I could stomach something
I’d surely feel less queasy,
and truth be told,
I just need proper sleep,
I could pop an extra pill and it would all be so easy,
but I am reducing this aid,
and this is a sure sign
that my mind needs adjusting,
to create chemicals to 
replace what the medicine
provided to quell my overactive mind.

But when I rise at six in the morning, 
after an hour of amazing uninterrupted rest,
I feel bright and satisfied that my body was 
exhausted enough to bless me with that extra slumber - 
I feel close to what could be this morning's very best,
and I know that later in the day I'll rest some more,
it's not so bad, after all,
just I'm living in a strange topsy-turvy style.

At least I'm getting some rest, 
it all adds up, 
better than never ever sleeping at all or never enough.

It'll only be temporary,
this topsy-turvy, Nocturnal Me,
I've been on this med for years,
how could I expect it to be undone so easily?
   
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Ann Danilina on Unsplash

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  • Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

    Poem: The Irritated Sleep Poem – 16/07/20

    I am tired,
exhausted,
feels like I barely slept a wink.
 
I don’t know who
wakes me,
but I stumble up and down
for a thirst-quenching drink,
 
my slumber interrupted,
four am or half past two,
what can I do
to simply sleep through?
Do I need to beat my pillow to tire myself,
until my knuckles turn raw red, or black and blue?
 
I operate through days like a zombie,
lidded eyes,
confused and grumbling,
 
wanting to get through the day,
yet all I’ll do is sleep it away,
I curl on the couch
though heater’s on,
I’m still freezing,
come what may, hey?
 
My rigid form
encourages only stilted blood flow,
if I moved more, I would warm up
but I only want to curl up just so.
 
My attitude easily becomes belligerent,
my irritation arises,
I need uninterrupted sleep, just once,
goddamn it,
how can I sort this problem out right???

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    Poem: Early Morning Disturbances – 04/03/20

    The afternoon calls to me,
it begs for me to take advantage,
a swimming sensation within my mind
causes a wondering and I mentally wander:
I do not have the energy for this.
 
To explore the pathways,
to join with other beings,
to share their thoughts, feelings, and dreams,
well, this is something undulating, it seems.
 
Instead, I wish to lay down in my bed,
rest my weary head that’s arisen since two thirty a.m.,
and laid half alert, half asleep,
pacing back and forth,
up and down the stairs,
waiting for the morning,
when I can end the time when that 
restlessness replaced my wanted dreaming.
 
I must replenish,
I must coerce this Afternoon who wishes to 
bid me hither soon,
to engage me in some activities that are beneficial to me,
who says that they are beneficial? I want to squawk,
I want to scream.
 
Instead, I peel open my newly made bed,
feel the crispness of the lining sheets surrounding my body,
feel the plumpness of my fluffed pillows 
billowed around my head,
and I close my eyes,
feeling the softness ensue as the doona 
weighs upon me with comfort
that I haven’t known for ever so long.  
 
This haven I have created,
this haven I have made,
I am thankful for it,
the opportunity to rest comfortably without interruption,
because in the darkness of the early morning,
I will be hastened from my sleep,
my eyes, bleary, open,
and again, it’ll be two thirty.
 
The couch is no solace for someone who wishes to swim in dreams,
I must be in my current bedded comfort tonight,
I tell myself that in order to have 
calm before mayhem or disturbances
from my short sleeping delights
I must rest and relax into an early, quiet night.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Glen McCallum on Unsplash

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  • Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    Poem: Sticky Gems – 31/03/20

    I jolt awake,
back into the night,
where I wearily breathe and pad around the kitchen and hallways 
without any sense of brightness or light.
 
Sleepily, I guzzle liquids,
after all, I crave them,
strangely,
must it be due to the medication once forcefully fed to me?
 
I press myself to stay awake but 
the effort is too much, 
I crawl back into bed,
there’s a soft rustling,
a half-asleep groaning,
oh dear, my insomnia
has awakened him.
 
I cannot help my medical condition,
it is appearing to rear its ugly head,
the precipitation of an outburst of my other condition,
my positive yet negative malady?
 
I shut my eyes,
I tell myself it’s only for a moment,
then roused all of a sudden:
where am I?
It feels as though another continent.
 
Desperately, I call out for Mother,
my pleas are like sticky gems from the oceans and earth,
waiting to be accepted and acknowledged,
recognised perhaps, but not until the end of process.
 
I call and call
but I cannot find her,
perhaps she’s around the corner,
giggling with a close friend,
why, what mirth with that other,
 
And my father is watching protectively to the side,
making certain nothing untoward happens,
because in one fell swoop the world can change,
this I’ve sadly discovered.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Aline Ponce from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    Poem: Insomniac – 18/02/20

    The second hand ticks,
each click like the repeated trigger of a pistol,
fearful, I lie in wait,
as it speaks of how affected I will be if I remain
in this involuntary state.
 
I’ve barely slept in days,
awakening hours always the same,
middle of the morning,
the arms at those memorable angles,
I wish I could slip daintily into my dreams.
 
Instead, nightmarish awakenings
where I beg for liquid,
I am strangely thirsting,
as though the method of fighting to stay under
the surface of consciousness has drained me of all
moisture;
I am but a slice of aged parchment.
 
And upon me there are unintelligible words written,
scrawled, in fact,
speaking of that which I cannot understand,
let alone behold,
but the effort behind the scratching,
the etching seems atrociously laboured,
is this what I do in my short periods of sleep?
Where I detail myself or,
I detail the unknown controllers?
 
Because that is what it feels like,
I am a being not of my own accord,
when I lie there awaiting sleep,
I ache, anxious butterflies in my chest,
anxiety, anxiety,
there’s something there, unheard.
 
Like a pinprick in the distance, not many would register that sound,
but to understand its existence is of a severe knowing,
a recognition of something there unknown,
an insomniac’s thoughts pinned in the clouds.
 
And I lie here,
waiting, waiting quietly,
my eyes widened and my heart beating in such a state,
how long will it be before the pills take effect?
Before falsified sleep is forced upon me,
a method of a chemical dream, dream, dreaming?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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