Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: literature

  • Poem: Shades of Purple – 05/08/20

    Poem: Shades of Purple – 05/08/20

    Purple is royal, regal,
it is crushed velvet pressed against my cheek,
purple is for kings and queens,
and princesses in lilac who walk among
the public, blessing them in busy streets.
 
Sashes of light purple are for
accomplishments,
university achievements,
and musical delights,
I remember earning my purple sash,
I was so proud to have worn it that night.
 
Purple is lavender, rubbed between hungry, famished fingers,
eager for that scent that bees delve into
for lunch and for their dinner,
 
purple is a passionfruit cheekily disguising its tart insides,
purple is the joy of a restaurant’s purple mascot –
children cannot wait,
so excited,
much anticipation for Party Time!
 
Purple is a soldier’s heart,
for men and women fallen in combat,
and purple is for spirituality,
in fact, purple feeds my creativity,
this hue so powerful that hearts and minds and eyes
will rise with great potency.
 
I clothe myself in purple,
though I do not wish myself to achieve nobility,
I cloak myself in this shade,
this hue,
because it feels right to do so for me.
 
These wide sleeves of velvet,
I wrap the material around me,
I cannot feel anything but bliss,
it flows through me freely.
 
I am now purple, purple, purple,
I am at one with this colour,
everything it represents,
I may be, I may not be,
but truthfully,
inside, I feel a raging fire,
 
some metaphorical power
must have sent
for me, to announce upon me this very hour.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Orlova Maria on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Relocation – 30/07/20

    Poem: Relocation – 30/07/20

    Sometimes it’s positive to relocate,
a subtle change of scene,
a change of pace,
being stagnant,
stuck in the same room, same world
for so long,
it can drive me around the bend,
four walls enclosing on me because
 
they can do so with
the slipperiest of ease,
despite my view from above,
the wondrous blue sky,
down below, quaint houses and greenery,
 
I need an alteration at times,
stitch stitch stitch
a change of colour,
won’t you permit this
on my threaded line?
 
So, I move outside,
settle myself into place,
hear the soaring birds in their flocks,
as my heart begins to race.
 
I’ve not been outside in so long,
breathing stale air unknowingly,
my own carbon dioxide from my own body,
slowly poisoning me as I tried to breathe.
 
It’s ironic, isn’t it,
that while I dredged sorrows while
trying to expel to become free,
I essentially was breathing my very own poison,
while typing it all out also so freely.
 
But now that I am outside,
the sun permits her joyful gaze,
upon me I feel her love,
her warmth
all around me
because
 
sometimes a change of pace is what is required,
a change of scenery, more like,
I absorb the wonderful ambience out here,
and know, that of my mindset,
I have altered it in a means that’s wanted,
desired,
from this new world,
I feel its love.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Artem Beliaikin from Pexels

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Flawless? – 27/07/20

    Poem: Flawless? – 27/07/20

    Flawless, how can I feel flawless
when beneath the spotted mirror my reflection barely lurks?
Flawless, how can I feel perfect
when my heart is blotchy like Grandma’s inky, moody pearls?
 
A broken smile, a set of hounded eyes reflect back at me,
finding a perfect circumstance?
Tell me this: does perfection truly exist?
I wish someone would answer me this.
 
The tug of war, the push and pull,
the night and day is cast,
to find myself,
within myself,
perfection will not outlast.
 
I treasure me, I wish to be free,
of my selfish expectations,
which seem never to quietly pass,
I call and call into the mirror for myself,
but nothing surfaces, truly I am lost.
 
Meanwhile, you don’t strive for flawlessness,
you embrace subtle cracks, your broken is your triumphant wholeness,
from lost lands, from hell you’ve been,
and back again; sights, minds, and feelings sometimes unseemly -
 
you toss and turn,
can’t cease your thinking,
the power of that on/off switch is wide-eyed and blinking.
 
I do not know why, but collided worlds,
frozen time,
hands at opposite ends of a spectrum,
I delve into lost moments which presently arrive,
this time is no longer only mine.
 
Words coagulate in Chemistry’s positions,
bewitched, enchanting?
flawless, so it seems?  
 
And in the mirror, I now aim to find
you stitched together almost,
almost flawlessly,
though I’ll need to buff the reflection,
because it’s time to fall into it,
allow a shadowy presence to return and brighten,
rise to his worldly heaven,
to reign over his own kingdom,
won’t he permit his return to rightful power?

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Thiago Matos from Pexels

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Promoting a Positive Image – 22/07/20

    Poem: Promoting a Positive Image – 22/07/20

    To promote a positive image of oneself
is to reach into the garden where the ivy breathes and grows,
where she winds around herself, occasionally tickling
the life from her,
and plucking a length of her stems and leaves,
to crown yourself with her woven dreams.
 
She is not poisonous, this ivy,
no, your image you promote is not unhealthy,
no, you try to think of yourself quite highly, but,
you recognise when you need to be brought down to earth.
 
You twirl her trailing lengths anxiously,
as though one would loose tendrils of falling hair,
weaving, weaving, creating shapes with her,
because ivy is malleable, like you.
 
You can morph into many things,
you can morph into expressing qualities which project
yourself as vibrant truth,
not always sad, anguishing, or depressive,
no matter that occasionally that’s how you’ve been,
but now joyous and happy,
an ivy trail’s winding dream,
you promote your sense of well-being to all
because that’s how you wish to be seen.
 
Past regrets may surface,
they may arise within the dirt, the rot, the dust,
as a means of demonstrating that, yes, you are
at fault for some things, once the root cause of pain
of suffering for some,
 
but we are not always perfect,
we cannot pretend to be,
some decide to sweep the past under the rug,
but no, not me.
 
I speak my truths,
I own them,
then once revealed, described,
I move on from them,
then go on demonstrating my purposeful view,
to be kind, courteous, myself,
allowing my words to flow through and through.
 
My crown of ivy is beaming green,
so rich and vibrant is she,
she heralds my crowning of a land
in which I project what is good,
what will reflect positively,
though sometimes negatively upon me.
 
Because, life comes in polar opposites,
one cannot take the good without the bad,
presenting our downfalls along with positivity
will reveal our true nature,
our true displayed hand.  

And this is the point,
for I've been crowned by my ivy as queen,
I live in a land in which daily I make my travels,
gathering the past, the present, 
and the future, too, 
into my hands to be seen, 

I aim to project myself positively,
even when I'm discussing moments of negativity,
and I must reiterate that I do so with
no heavy heart, 
a feeling of overexertion is not here,
it is entirely lacking. 

I hope to express with ease.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Her Regretful Young Self – 22/07/20

    Poem: Her Regretful Young Self – 22/07/20

    What idiocy she possesses,
she slaps her arm, her face,
she is her own abuser,
let her disallow her hand’s ability to falter.
 
For she deserves to be punished,
before and after the fact,
she knows what she has done is wrong,
but strangely she displays the minimal amount of regret.
 
She understands she must reveal more of her guilt
because she’s betrayed the trust of another,
but she is young, defensive, and full of bravado,
and she sits, falsely unaffected,
while she imagines he weeps tears of sorrow.
 
She couldn’t help what occurred,
it simply happened, it was truthfully that way,
sticks and stones,
broken bones,
she slaps herself awake.
 
She is trying to make herself feel,
she is attempting to make his pain more real,
so she registers it within her skin,
and within the numb heart in her chest
that’s erratically beating away still.  
  
She felt so much for this man,
and now, here she is,
disconnected,
as though looking through an hourglass
at trapped moments in time
which mattered most,
which have presently fallen by.
 
Their time together has expired,
and it’s all because of her,
his broken soul,
previously affected,
completely lost faith in her.
 
And she could apologise over and over,
and it wouldn’t make a single difference,
sometimes words seem cheap.
She wouldn’t want to watch him fall further into a heap.
 
The truth is, she felt lost within their dying love,
perhaps the event was a subconscious means of reaching out,
above and beyond,
a moment to destroy what was lost, no longer found.
 
They used to be magic,
or at least, she felt once they were fire,
but their conjoining depressions brought them deep sorrow,
perpetuating them further under.
 
On one night, this younger version of herself
innocently sought different company,
two friendships which could brighten her,
make her soul feel less weary,
send sparkles shivering throughout her mind and body,
because being around her friend and this other person,
his platonic company,
made her feel so amazing.
 
Yet, she was testing dangerous waters,
growing heavily inebriated,
she trod into the darkness of the night,
and then she, as her young, idiotic self,
ruined everything that she and her saddened other
had created over the course of many weeks of whispered nights.
 
She sits and reflects, recalls the
despairing, hopeless expression upon his face
when she revealed to him what happened,
how she was so sorry; of its occurrence she did not mean it.
 
He slowly melted away into obscurity then,
into the wall, in the patchy white paint,
because, his pasty pallor spoke volumes,
he was ill at hearing this,
at knowing he would now have to be alone,
in this world he had grown to hate.
 
She felt his pain.
she felt his sorrow.
she wished it upon him not a second longer,
to not last even till tomorrow,
he didn’t deserve this,
an amazing young man,
why did she do this,
so selfish,
she just wanted an escape,
momentarily,
no, it was never all planned.   

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro from Pexels
  • Poem: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20

    Poem: Like Yellowed Parchment – Fiction – 21/07/20

    The green in her eyes speaks of envy,
of rich, potent jealousy,
block upon blocks of her irises compacted –
there are shades of yellow lingering.
 
Like an aged page of a book,
curled and poignant a scene,
her yellow paper is delicate,
ancient, unlike recalcitrant feelings
which have not been heeded for years,
let alone months, hours, or days.
Others' aloof natures were not well received.
She quietly felt the same.
 
Why did they cruelly ignore her glimmer?
Curled and precious,
or shimmering and golden,
the nature of her brightened tidings being that
of a warm busied bee’s ability to thrive,
 
and her envy, the unfounded jealousy,
though they physically outweigh the true nature of herself,
her glimmering,
they cannot wholly take over the scene in which her
golden shine continues peeking through, 
growing,
delivering,
 
because, while she may present just a tickle,
just some freckles,
just mere moments
of daffodil yellow,
 
her jealousy announces yet dithers,
she’s preoccupied with envy's raging fire,
because to her, the two are always present, 
come what may,
still, her inner strength and outward smile
will wipe aside and away
her irises’ greedy greenery down to the dust,
leaving only space for vibrancy
and ancient words
carefully printed upon pressed, preserved parchment.

Her construction is now secure,
building blocks designated,
separated, sectorial,
colours divided,
dedicated,

pure yellowed ecstasy,
her vibrancy further brightens,
a must, a requirement,
it’s as if she’s been purged from head to toe,
so this it's what it means to live free of
negative, burgeoning thoughts,
to feel well and truly alive.

Of her ailments she seems cured,
of her jealousy and envy she has survived, 
now well and truly pure,
she's free to live and thrive.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Ylanite Koppens from Pexels

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Paradise – 21/07/20

    Poem: Paradise – 21/07/20

    Paradise, paradise,
it’s where seekers go to roam,
to find themselves away from the lost, the broken,
seeking something personal, true gold.
 
Paradise is where they visit,
to take turns riding in gondolas bobbing up and down,
upon canals of flowing freedom,
no longer lost, but found.
 
Paradise is where lurks the hopeful,
the tentatively shy, quiet, reserved,
the wallflower, the fly upon the wall,
watching, observing, knowing that to speak,
to spread his wings, would be dire,
it would be… unseemly.
 
Because, to reveal his true positioning,
in this land of paradise,
where hearts and minds are entwined, not separate,
not one ruling another, but working
in cohesion,
together,
 
this observer would do well to remember his
information-gathering is his ticket to personal understanding,
by realising how others work in relation to him,
he could most certainly gain a type of cohesive knowing.
 
Because paradise, paradise, while it may not be for everyone,
for every self,
it is here, it is present,
it is available to take, to be caressed,
to be held,
 
those who have travelled much of a journey to reach
this utopia of theirs, whichever form it may take,
they live, and they live, and they live
through it,
with it,
understanding,
growing because of it,
they'll emerge as pristine as a complex butterfly,
except they will live far longer.
 
But, there is no real necessity to show off such transformations,
why, to do so in this paradise may seem rude and immodest,
those present instead quietly exalt, and then go on
their own way,
while their subtle celebrations of personal growth and mental wealth
may mean the world to them,
they know they needn't advertise everything to the world, always.
 
So, in paradise,
we visit this land which sings,
lulls us into a land of security and pleasure,
and never haunts us of lost memories,
this place speaks to us,
speaks to us all,
and in our enthralled state,
we continue wishing, living,
longer and longer,
within this perfect world,
it’s what they all claimed it would be.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Frans Van Heerden from Pexels

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Projection – 20/07/20

    Poem: Projection – 20/07/20

    You say it’s not right,
that you’ve left an untidy impression,
you didn’t need to leave that lingering taste upon her lips,
here is your apprehension. 

You say you've projected yourself far more than
you desire yourself to be viewed
but how to disentangle yourself
from this resultant unhealthy view?
Would you allow yourself the moment to succumb and settle
rather than unnecessarily stew?

Her expectations will never match mine,
but her eyes, those glistening orbs,
widened with innocence,
underlined by a smile,
she does not know what she truly wants,
who or what she deserves,
darling, you’re far too much for her,
you’ve a manic type of verve;
though she doesn’t possess any true inkling,
she doesn’t understand this is who you are.

Heed not your aching, pounding heart
and worrisome, concerned thoughts,
how you weren’t worthy of her,
how you blew this opportunity,
don’t allow this commentary to flow through you, 
your mental calamity, 
this negativity.

You are golden,
you are sunshine, 
and to me, you are sharp panic 
bottled with the fizz of determination 
which shall not pale in comparison to any 
falsified form of freedom of expression.

You are sweet annihilation mixed with the 
richest spice I’ve ever known,
project unto me:
make my world your second home.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Jonathan Borba from Pexels

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: A Faulty Memory – 19/07/20

    Poem: A Faulty Memory – 19/07/20

    How to explain away an error when my intention was not cruel?
How to apologise when my memory’s retention simply wasn’t running so smooth?
How to insist I didn’t mean any offence when the point made was that I just didn’t understand?
Honest and truthful, and by my own, not another’s devices,
I feel one true lacking of mine has been brought to hand.

I want to explain away the memory slip,
that simply because I didn’t understand,
that because I did not recall,
doesn’t mean that I don't appreciate 
his work and this witty man,

that with my mind constantly being plagued by
doubts and critical thoughts of myself,
and wondering whether I am right 
within this written world,
that sometimes my own insecurities can 
override my capacity to remember
every word written by someone other than me.
 
I can’t always remember what I had on my toast in the morning,
I can’t quite remember whether I left the light on in
my second room in the evening,
I can’t seem to recall exactly how a
certain name is pronounced,
often let alone what it was,
I need to clarify some facts,
their ordering, with another,
because sometimes others recall specific facts better.
 
I may be on the ball with most things,
I may recall turns of phrases,
or another’s habits or their privately revealed feelings,
I may remember which spices to put into your tea,
but please understand,
sometimes there are too many facts to remember for me.
 
I didn’t mean any offence, 
and I hope none has been taken,
that truthfully your words were fact,
a wry throw-away expression,

I thank you for a lack of admonishment, any upset, or lamentation,
because I think, to you,
I am known for being kind and wanting the best for you,
and I’d not purposefully forget something if I knew
it would make pain dire,

all in all, I want it to be known 
that a memory slip was just that,
it was not purposeful, it was not called for,
I just forgot.
Please understand that.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Kyaw Tun on Unsplash

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud

  • Poem: Double-Stitched and Emphasised – 19/07/20

    Poem: Double-Stitched and Emphasised – 19/07/20

    I rise and reach my crescendo,
my voice tickles the highest echelons of available pitch,
wavering,
delicate,
now a subtle shriek,
melodious though, it is.
 
I sing for them, I sing for me,
a-top the plenary hideaway where I quietly go
to express myself,
to note all thoughts down,
my pen, my ink,
it drags from left to right,
of my thoughts the device is well learned.
 
And the wavering,
the tumultuous calling is only heard by those attuned
to higher pitches,
special people who understand my supersonic cries,
those who have been subjected to my pain and joy
will understand both the rise and the strife.
 
I start to warble now,
with a warm, rich vibrato,
much like an F# on a violin’s D string,
it leads, it leads,
wants to lead to the tonic G,
and settle there we must,
we have modulated together,
created a melody purely for us.
 
They’ve listened carefully and graciously,
and with kind, generous natures,
I feel utterly thankful,
I can create a tune again,
this time somewhat altered,
but the story still remains,
the thread of experience
a sewn line,
double stitched and emphasised.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Devi J from Pixabay

    Return to All Posts

    Home

    Join me also at:

    YouTube

    SoundCloud