Crazed night full of backstabs and bites
and false sugar sweetness relax into this dream
there is understanding there are laughs there is fight
there is wit pomp and circumstance to cease this inner fight
she shrieks about the hell beneath her world in which she lives
she attempts to share her knowledge and more but
the bunny rabbit only questions and sings
annoying character is she but shields the devils face
with deep, deep chagrin upon him
Wonder not the times of treason of incorrect submission “
or that Libra you are for searching
you will find her deep within me.
For I am your saviour within this life, within our dream.
Friends together, if you’ll let it be
so mote it be so mote it be.
Copyright © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Tag: memoir
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Poem: friends forever? – 08/01/21
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Poem: To Make a Difference – 05/07/20
Wanting to make a difference, trying to be heard, I've spoken at length and, I fear I've pained some minds, eyes and ears, still, I insisted on sharing more, and more, and more. I’d apologise for being fixated, but, I am compelled, I want to share my truths, will they, have they made a difference? Could you relate? Were you moved? I know I need to pull back, drag drawstrings on the crazed kite that’s whipped so free, decrease the momentum, I need to drag, drag, drag, my words straight back to me. To corner them in a box, a private site for me alone, until I can assess what should be shared, not haphazardly at you thrown. Sometimes I share so I feel less alone, knowing that others are sharing my experiences, too, makes me feel like my varied path with its mistakes and pains may have more of a learning curve to ride and view. I cannot help that I’ve overloaded, but when I look back on my words, I’m pleased that I’ve shared, that I've opened up, perhaps to you, and to others, this has drawn us closer. Understanding to be allowed, interwoven, ne’er to be undone, these moments, experiences, truths of mine, recollected and digested together. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
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Poem: Expressions In My Painted Corner – 04/07/20
I’ve painted myself into a corner, with heavy shades of red and black, crimson for the heartache, darkness for the emptiness after the fact. When I lost access to my chaotic world, a paradise I shouldn't have cherished, I felt broken, no recourse, misunderstood, essentially alone: Whom could I waltz through life with now? Whom was left to cast my charming smiles upon, to share my lofty views in excited tones? When he or she or another one left, and those other important ones, too, it seemed as if I’d lost my everything, but now, at these warped memories I wonder: who on earth were you? They had little lasting impact on my life, simply passers-by who only meant themselves well, their sudden absences without alibis, their silences spoke their truths, I am now completely underwhelmed. Selfish needs later attended to after some uncomfortable, hastily arranged dates - their halfhearted, lackluster attention cast over foamed four dollar coffees - 'wise investments': I was viewed as a stock market who should pay dividends later that day. I proved so desperately hopeful for positive connections, genuine interactions, yet my lonely eagerness, was perceived as a targeted weakness, I would later bend, shatter, and break. Some chanced manipulation to slyly extract from me without my whole realisation or knowing, because I was sitting there smiling, consenting, hopefully waiting, my obvious yearning for acceptance continually, perpetually growing, like hungering, destructive flames, they consumed me. Made pliable, easily melded, I allowed my resolve and will to be bent, to be repeatedly stung red-raw as though by a heated iron poker's end, to be tarnished, and for what? Absolutely nothing, my efforts and emotions all ill spent. Yet another redundant contact to be eventually blocked or erased from view, naivety and gullibility stole the best of my younger years, this is an essential, festering truth. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Marion Grimm from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
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Poem: The Bite and the Snarl – 04/07/20
Where is the bite, where is the snarl, where is the slightly obnoxious nature to my scrawl? Why is – here – softness shown when all I wanted to portray was bite, snarl, bite? Isn’t it odd that revealing vulnerability can make me feel so empowered then sickly weak inside? Like reaching to touch the underside of a floaty blue bottle jellyfish, it is enticing, appears so tender, yet danger silently lurks, its mesmerising imposition, the impending poison speaks of my scrawled pains, too. I can rediscover my spikes, my ability to cause chaos, the alliteration, the harsh ck ck ck, no wide mouthed assonance, no openly assessing audience tasked with observing my aching abnormalities, I’ll sink my teeth in, create a toxic pair of punctures for my poison to glide its way through. Then the venom can flood, overwhelm this Surviving Victim – am I truly such a thing? My latent negativity can overwhelm them, you, last night you subtly alerted me to this. I have sadly travelled throughout recent years on a path of personal bitterness which repels, and negative swimming thoughts toward myself, they’re not purposeful, but they are well practiced, this bite has become well-worn. Am I truly an overly grumbling entity who should simply brighten her mindset, because that is easier to see? It’s not so simple, I’ve lived with snark and bitter tones the last few years of my adult life, I shall try, however, to allow the kindness to rise from beneath, penetrate my being, and speak such kinds words to myself because, maybe I am deserving of these. Then, my acerbic tone may dissolve, the cuts upon my paining tongue, healed or removed, whichever self-imposed punishments I practice thrown away, I can hopefully again be labelled as free, having shed this layer, this skin, this disease, of coldness, sadness, and dismay. One can still retain the bite without making the world feel uncomfortable. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Olya Adamovich from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
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Poem: A Bipolar’s Addled Mind – Spoken Word and Text – 26/06/20
I shriek, my body flushed and covered with welts, my very first memory, my very first malady. Illness will follow me wherever I go. My violin's bow hairs tightly hug the strings, as left-hand dexterity is a-flurry, the fruits born of my first psychosis, the magic of a mind wholly scattered and broken, possessed pieces flying in the wind. My stomach is expanding! The result of repetitive gorging after many months of vain, restrictive, self-imposed starvation, I call him, alerting him to fatherhood, he rushes, so fearful, to confirm my grand delusion of a twin pregnancy is not real. I climb these hospital walls, but I have the ability to meld souls and create complex magic, then suddenly I am a “witch in training”, because of my ability to improvise protective rhyme on the spot, I name myself the Walking Spell Book. The girl who has the room next door, her room smells like Death, she is always hanging about outside, with the door ajar, fragrance wafting through the gap. She stands by her door, menacingly, pseudo-curious, and wanting to encounter me, to interact, but for what reason? Which hard-earned skills does she want to thieve from me? At this point, it is always about what others want to take from me, to misappropriate as their own. My suspicion of others and their ill intentions consume my being whole. That scent of Death is so overpowering that I learn to hold my breath as I pass her room, she asks for some help with something one day, I was not quick enough to return to my haven, where I could be free of the patients and keep their questions and wants away. Rainy day, rainy day, my ailing mind, please cure, rainy day, thunderous day, make me right, I need the freedom, of this I am so sure. I recall another visit: Racing thoughts, grand delusions, paranoia, I run and rush from one patient to another, this visit I am relishing the conversations, I have so much I want and need to say! I must be a bother with my manic motormouth, my clanging word associations, my shameless self-promotion of my prose and poetry, I know I can be wholly annoying, but goddamnit, these things are important to me! I am the Queen Bee here, I am the socialite of the day and night, I can warble and charm and buzz and intellectually, flirtatiously please, charismatic is what I become during the height of my disease. I am purging some of my weaknesses, my history to be seen, but for what purpose? To inform, to cause a reaction, perhaps to create an empathic response, or arouse curiosity? No matter my intent, I will have you know, I’m doing this with an open heart, I tap, tap, tap, my revealing words, so you can feel closer and achieve more understanding, for the more we talk about mental illness, the more acceptance will take place, the more open the channels of communication will be to read and know. Discussing mental health is what we must do, where we need to start, there are no facts or behaviours too odd or peculiar that must be withheld with shame or carried by a heavy heart. Allow the conversations to begin, let us commence these, with wide-armed embraces, words of understanding building towards our truths which we allow to be shared and perused. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Background music: "Frenetic", composed by myself. Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
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Poem: Way Back When: The Snow Globe – 11/12/19
Turn this snow globe upside down,
shake it left to right,
around and ‘round,
watch the glitter settle,
upon a now-glistening figure,
upon her nose a mere flicker,
a perfectly pretty picture.
Way back when,
things were simpler,
her angst wasn’t as present,
no sense of preoccupation,
when she could slide into her bed,
or curl up on a hill,
and voraciously devour the life story of another,
of their words she’d have her fill.
How she ached at their poignant moments,
suffered along with their harrowing experiences,
and looked up to those brave enough,
to detail the troubles and horrors of their lives,
whether self-inflicted or because of another’s devices;
strife is considered strife.
So, she learned their tales,
their pains, their sorrows
and took on their experiences,
wondering how some of them walked away unscathed,
but in truth, she knew, that like her,
they too likely still carried hidden scars of suffering,
the snow globe’s shining glitter isn’t always as it seems.
© 2019 Lauren M. Hancock
also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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