Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: mental health

  • Poem: A Little Ode to Medication – 16/06/20

    Poem: A Little Ode to Medication – 16/06/20

    - A/N: The audience here are figures of authority, such as a psychiatrist, therapist, or treating team, and here I try to explain my disdain for being analysed with little care for my personality and its traits, only based upon the bare clinical facts. - 

The medications cause a quagmire
of swimming thoughts and regret,
while my state of mind alters for the better,
I wonder, why did my condition show his face?

A misspent youth?
Self-abuse?
Melancholy requiring a revellation
of the truth?

Here's what I have to say:
naught,
I shan't allow further seating,

no more window views,
purveyors of ill-fated gossip,
throw your words to the wind,
and allow me to sleep,

my dreaming is important,
it's where I escape, 
rhyme and weave,

my thoughts allow me to dance, 
unimpeded 
along with them,
I cherish these.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Am I To Blame? – 05/06/20

    Poem: Am I To Blame? – 05/06/20

    By the skin of my teeth,
the scraping of my nails,
I’m fighting for escape,
freedom from this personal hell.
 
How did I get here?
Perchance, do you think
I even know?
 
The aching and the longing,
the pain, this vivid suffering,
guttural shrieks,
I’m alone,
but not completely by myself.
 
For these dull thoughts,
their lack of rambling,
their mind-dulling medications,
 
my blurred, stunted abilities,
no longer independent,
only permitted a stupor
behind elders and staff
I am meant to be following.
 
No bright sparks,
my light,
my synapses have been capped,
 
I’m disgusted with myself,
the mental apathy,
physical lumbering 
I show and have within,
the aftermath.
 
Is it my fault?
Because I went off meds?
Seeking that glorious manic high,
to ride those ecstatic waves,
is there a suitable alibi?
 
For eventually, I plummeted,
deep despair,
I could barely swim,
coagulating sin,
what have I done,
the wreckage before me:
life’s comical misery.
 
And I wallow
in the blackest, languid part of me,
is this what they call barely living?
My mood, my pace, my life,
simply crawling?
 
The prince and princess fled in my tale,
only grimy kingdoms
are where my soul has been called,

the hollowing,
never-ending emptiness,
this gnawing depressive hell,
for the former intensity of my world
I plead and I beg and I wail.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Anemone123 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Escape Room – 28/05/20

    Poem: Escape Room – 28/05/20

    Fingertips against the wall,
pressing, gouging,
wanting to get through,
but no way out.
 
I am aghast at this imprisonment –
four walls slowly caving in.
Like impending doom,
they inch in all around,
closer and closer,
it’s growing difficult to breathe.
 
Why this state of insanity?
Am I deserving of its encroachment?
My mental state,
my lack of solid coping mechanisms,
Why, how to survive,
this condition, this condition?
 
The walls now turn to nausea,
the sicker I become,
apprehensive glances of my own,
the walls’ will be done.
 
And now they smile,
they cackle,
they absorb my light –
away!
Slumped in a lonesome corner,
left quietly to decay.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Poem: Friendships Among Pink Blossoms – 27/05/20

    Cherry blossoms in Acacia Street,
a feast for the eyes,
a scene so replete,
petals dance while we’re healing Inside.
 
Pink petals float,
beautiful be they,
a wistful smile upon my lips
as memories fly by.
 
So many unique people met on the path,
these cobblestones,
where we sat on the park benches,
getting to know each other as time would pass by
and people come and go,
 
So many life stories learned,
moments of vulnerable truth,
they learned about me,
I learned of them, too.
 
Despite my illness, I wanted to help,
to fix their turmoil inside,
but it turned out
I needed to try to heal myself, too,
that would be incredibly wise.
 
We had staff to attend to us,
medications,
therapy too,
but by banding together,
whispered secrets,
friendships forged,
we grew stronger amidst the raging reds,
paranoid greens,
and solemn, moody blues.
 
Where are they now?
Are lives led happy and content?
Are they settled and stable?
Or are they still needing
to be held up by caring arms,
well provided,
loving support always well meant?
 
We may have resented some support,
the strict nature of it all,
but these measures were in place
to protect us,
to allow the healing of them, us, those,
from the sicknesses which plagued our minds most.
 
Gratitude may be come at differing points,
perhaps immediate or after the fact,
but know they looked after us
while we were acute,
and they’ll catch us if we tumble,
if again we fall,
until we can grow within ourselves,
becoming more resilient
and firmer with inner strength,
leading forward,
taking steps ahead
for more well lives,
the cobblestones we’ll learn to
no longer need tread,
they are hopefully part of our past lives.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

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  • Poem: No Matter What – 19/03/20

    Poem: No Matter What – 19/03/20

    I am rounder
but I am happy,
the streamlined silhouette once paraded
has become modest at long last.

Need I quarrel with myself?
Discuss that which displeases me?
No!
I am stronger than this,
the crumbling of that petty yet insidious disease
which will no longer triumph above all else.
 
I punished myself – ah!
Self-persecuted mind and body,
this was what it was all about.
 
But now,
I am rounder
and I am happy,
I am prone to breaking out 
into song and celebratory dance.
 
The draconian measures of self-punishment,
to be others' fancy, starring light has long gone,
I am myself,
peculiar and particular
throughout the day and night,
I am unique,
I am one.
 
I am myself 
and I am worthy,
no matter what size I have become.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 6563351 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Girlish Dreams – 26/02/20

    Poem: Girlish Dreams – 26/02/20

    fairy bread and toffee apples and Barbie dolls and cupcakes
pink princess outfits and friends' prematurely planned weddings
and skipping rope
and playing-house games
 
a little girl’s dreams
so simple and easy to please
those years in primary school
where we danced on the rocks like sprites with ease
 
but then my dreams grew stormy
I became complicated
the family's black sheep
depression set in and I never really knew
how different I was
I just felt so old,
unlike anything I’d ever even known
 
a tortured soul I felt myself as
a failure in friendships
yearning for relationships
good tidings rarely seemed to be brought my way
though talented it appeared the self-aggrandising nature
of my achievements and success bore me into the ground
nailing me
pinning me
driving me
down
down
down.
 
how I rose up was anyone’s guess
histrionic and glib?
I was never these.
but I smoothed over the rough edges of my undesired life
and made myself into something more,
for if I couldn’t be accepted as I was,
then by all means, I would exemplify my strife.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by peridotmaize from Pixabay 

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  • Poem: Rich Blood – 06/02/20

    Poem: Rich Blood – 06/02/20

    Blood pumps through my veins,
potent, rich, disastrous,
cells which slip and slide,
speaking of a invasive nature that is hereditary.
 
The mishaps which befit my existence were
invisible to begin with,
then with coercion,
coaxing,
they came forth.

The personality changes,
the heights the lows,
the outstanding misunderstandings,
 
the delusory nature of my illness,
it startles,
the non-stop talk,
the mania,
the lack of self-control,
the coping devices.
 
But those days, hopefully,
those relapses are behind me
and all I need to maintain
is my health,
an understanding that I must be both vigilant and alert.
 
The blood pulsates through my veins,
and I wonder how difficult it will be to remain 
in the realm of wellness
or even clutching to the surface,
just as long as I don’t plummet
or fly,

but up and up and away would be nice,
I’d like that for change,
but then, I wouldn’t,
illness' propellant and subsequent crash is not a blast,
thought it might appear so
experienced that way.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Dyversions from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Language of the Birds – 06/02/20

    Poem: The Language of the Birds – 06/02/20

    Manipulative and depressed?
I’ve been assessed,
thank you to this deck of birds,
by my own hand, I’ve been able to determine,
that which the world may think of me.

Selfish and unkind is perhaps how I am perceived,
because of the manner in which I composed my words,
expounded my poetry.
Through depression, through illness and anger and tribulation,
that is what has come about.
 
I cannot dream of anything other than spurting forth what is within me,
to censor, to flag myself,
it is an indelicate picture.
 
Though, of course, some writings must be withheld,
but understand, with wellness,
my true being returns,
my flames riding the curve of my back.
 
And beneath the crescent moon which waxes and emits 
a necessity for persistence and change,
I will preen myself of any loose ends that don’t need to be there,
the challenge is not removing the flames which are unrequired,
in fact, damn it all, I’ll engulf myself,
you know this firebird will never truly expire.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: Life Lessons on a Path – 03/01/20

    Poem: Life Lessons on a Path – 03/01/20

    An expansive view,
surroundings enormous,
and my heart,
it beats tightly nestled within my breast,
crying out as a reminder that I must be true.
 
True to myself,
like an enthusiastic whirligig which will always spin,
relentless,
without its own natural breath but making his own,
he survives.
Better still, he thrives.
 
I will continue to turn and turn
and find my niche,
where I’ll express an ongoing internal landscape,
more than I’ll display in person,
viewable only by myself behind closed curtains.
 
There’s a space within my soul
which I once ached to share,
to divulge without thought,
without consideration, 
an alleviation,
unnecessary wrongful confessions, which,
while conjoined to the quill,
I shared verbosely and with calligraphy so flamboyant
o’er and o’er, 'til there was nothing left in my inkwell,
let alone in the recesses of my mind.
 
I’m disinclined to share the inky Rorschach interpretations
of sullied silted experience,
and as such,
my preference is to unwind current struggles and tidings
remaining in my world,
from these I’ll take my fill,
I’ll share.
 
I need never grieve again for shrieking heights,
nor those days of pinprick slender sickness,
manic confusion,
psychotic delusion,
so many people met,
yet so few remaining.

No, I will only allow my vision to be cast over the plains,
the fields of my existence
which I can detail, and breathe in the embodiment
of calming words assisting my soul 
to become tamer, 
to become wiser, 
and to allow my offered text to reflect 
what's scrawled within my innermost pages.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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  • Poem: An Arresting Freedom – 23/01/20

    Poem: An Arresting Freedom – 23/01/20

    Teeming with truth is the garden pond beneath me,
little goldfishes and ginormous catfish sharing the same muck,
and breathing the same strangling air.
There is no poisoning permitted within their world,
no time for man-made deaths,
perilously cold, creations of old.

They have this amazing ability of not bumping into one another,
as though they understand the nature of truth-transportation,
within their minds, within their scales,
there lay the makings of something frantic yet strangely calming.
 
I unwind myself and my stress around the edges here,
simply speaking, as naked as marked by my worldly arrival,
I bear the tidings of youth and the addled nature of age,
paperweights upon my important documentation,
leafing through the pitfalls and milestones,
such a young age I was when it began,
much mental anguish to have unravelled.   
 
These documents are meant to reflect the truth
but they speak of others’ interpretations,
naught of my own cacophony and musings,
I am wound and wound by their looping,
their incoherent inked ramblings,
their medical terminology to describe
how I am presenting.
Nonsense! I am not a category three or five anything.
 
I am more like a butterfly in that storm,
where I gracefully flit to flit to dream to dream,
and explore the deft nature of mental health
and their well-versed world,
explanation upon explanation
of what I am,
what illness I have become
because, that’s just it,
labels weigh down, they laden.
 
A butterfly finds little comfort in human inscribed notes and details,
instead, she takes delight in soaring, higher and higher,
taking that particular note with her, and then,
with a release of her limbs,
the letter flutters down, further, and further,
until no one knows where it went.   
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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