Healing has a language, I whisper softly, airily it knows, of the simplicity and the duality of wondrous beauty, poetry and prose, the writers and the poets swing each way in kind, whimsical deciduous trees sway our way, whispering in turn, and slightly, just slightly out of time.
I will be the boisterous me I will grin and bear the dreams I will heal and steal that light the sun of the Son of the Sun I will rise when the prisms sparkle rainbow sheens I will be fortuitous and reach for desired dreams I will call and call for items like sticky pearls because they satiate my need for nourishment be and end all.
I won’t fold beneath pressure I will contemplate and begin to once again know my other my shadow self I will tame and feed her charisma my Peter-Pan syndrome my rainbow sprite self won’t go under
I will live with an inner dream childhood fantasies of writing and creating art and music are everything, as they seemed I will not complain nor will I whine because within is my great divine and I will reach it, reach her, the moment I speak I will become of her
Let the laymen understand me and even let the complex mock me I won’t heed their warnings their shooting signs because this is my life and I’ll direct it just fine.
even when I’ve not everything I need all around I have all I need when I’m here the bare minimum does not contribute to any sense of gloom nor quaint snipey conversations within the room my face doesn’t grow tired or long because I am here and now and by my side is… you.
I know you’re tired of the same old love poems dedicated to you and I, perhaps things are about to change, perhaps we’ll move on, move forward, move forth, we are too good for dwelling upon the prior circumstance –
we will move forward.
no matter how long it takes, how many angsty bitter tunes and rhymes I won’t be like that today, at least, not this time,
I wander our memories, childhood, adulthood things as I clean with slow ease, wondering what to bin, what to keep, what to allow as designated for others,
and I realise how quickly time’s passed before my very eyes, and I contemplate what happened to the stars, the moon, oh the stars when my world was up in arms, I was angered, bitter, untidy, nasty, cruel to mankind, it wasn’t pretty, but it was only a spell, for a tiny moment in time, and recovery is poignant, it is turbulent, but it’s occurring, within hours. within minutes and seconds, darling.
And those who decide to stand by me, as friends, as warriors, as heroes, times three, many have been here in the making but only three remain somehow, maybe more, but they’ve no designated doors, not yet, anyhow.
I am watching and waiting for the complete revelation, about the words they will say and unravel tongues engorged like a tame good-willed Cerberus, I don’t know, not quite, what they can do, but I’m excited to see how the utterances will help me, assist me, my mindset, my confidence to entirely return.
Lovingly, achingly, away from me, I’ve made my childhood bed, and what about you, dear sir? Shall you rise from my head? A memory, a mere memory? No, shadowy darkness and smiles, spirits assured.
Today I have been published on Sad Girls Club with my piece ‘Resonating Flautando’. Thank you so much to Sarah and the rest of the editorial team for this honour. Please find the beginning of my poem below and click to continue reading at their website.
My work can also be found at @laurenm.hancock on Instagram where I post my art and words. Having recently undergone some serious mental health issues, my work on Insta is not representative of the whole of myself, however, thank you for visiting if you choose to, nonetheless.
resounding flautando
I’ve been becoming more the more I realise I don’t need to store those angsty jealous feelings there’s so much in store in life if I control their lack of desire lack of fire lack of attraction so much inaction and I find, I find that there’s no need for me to hide the precious parts of me to flautando over that fingerboard so softly spoken continue reading here…
The brothers come closer they materialise into view expecting the expectant dame to cry ‘adieu adieu’ but she will not fall like a tree in the quiet woods she will not be felled, not even by a dark witch doctor with many alibis to tell.
he holds the keys, swings with her melodies, he rhymes and rhymes, in unison in style,
like youngest and child they sing to the heavens, mother mary they smile at her, the archangels they call to them.
these two are kindred in some type of way, spirits never lost yet reunited by purpose, shall we say? but the truth of the matter is they both have their own loves they only sing together like gentle sparrow and dove.
who is the M who is L? who is the character that is perceived as well? is it the minority, is it the victim mentality, or is it completely another character, the malicious son of an entity?
We shall continue this broadcast of enmity shortly, let us recommence dictating World War Three.
Nacht.
Copyright 2022 Lauren M. Hancock. All right reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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