Afternoon siesta, weather moody, growling, sweet, curl into covers, tucked in, slowly drifting off, as common though as beautiful as the morning mist. Muscles so relaxed they might ooze off bones tender and supple, anonymity in the dreamy fields, a fervent chase begins, of your placating love, still worthy. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
Contemplate ahead of the moment where precious jewels sparkle upon fingers of mad yet calculated women, where even madder men will fight to keep them happy but with their demands, ongoing, complaints, eternal sufferings, maddest men’s eyes look elsewhere, for new hands to bear, new hearts to win over. The bejewelled, once beguiling women, tap tap tap their manicured nails upon the sink, waiting for their husbands to return late from work, his inevitable sigh to engulf the room, of his own self-proclaimed suffering, and roll in he does, scented by the faintest lingering perfume, she turns her face away, hurt, as though slapped but nothing’s said or done. She will pretend she doesn’t notice, this time, and the next, because out of the slightest guilt borne from his activities, he purchases her more jewels, more gold, then an increase of her credit limit, and she supposes this is all she deserves, if she were to leave him, she’d have far less, in comparison it’d seem as though nothing, so, gritting her teeth she smiles when receiving the shut-up prizes. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
rigid too stiff, too tight, too inflexible, is that life’s intention? a formal suit, paired with a starched white collar, perfectly suitable for a living fool, breathing superiority and dominance but here: a softer gown, lavender blue, fit for a lady an arm to caress and know of, to hold. dare the suit be worn with little thought? portray an image of undertaking and undertaken all at once? speaking of a world dragging down the masked who fight to keep flagrant pretence alive while hooded? or will the lady soften the scene, with her flowing georgette dress, and perfection set against its tight seams? stiff or gentle, who will bless? rigid or supple, who will you choose? roles in life to assign and defy accompanied by a decision possibly divine. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
I love the scent which surrounds you, your aura glows with meaning, permeating your outer shell with reinforced support, reassurance and kindness. You can try to fix my problems and aid my floaty, fanciful dreams but you know that this is not the right method for me. You take my brokenness and allow it to be a beautiful view, though still in pieces, you understand it’s my role to rearrange myself into something more positive, useful, that to allow transmutation through your hands would be wrong, it is for me to wield the vision here, hold me close as I once more transform, I love the scent when you hold me in your arms. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
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.
She ran though my dreams last night, footsteps slightly off kilter, her gown dragging with the airs of freshly bought freedom, I smile to myself, she is precious. She is fleeing but that won’t stop them. The twisted cavalry usually searches for cadavers lying on the cold morgue’s tongues, a desire to appear as the darkened souls that they are, but this time they are seeking the living – it is at the request of another, it is in their best interests she will remain untouched. They finally spot her, she is tangled with the trees, their fiercely hungry arms catching onto the very gown which promised her freedom. I feel the tip and turn as she disorientates, her world soars and then slams into a hessian sack, a perfect place for inedible green sprouting potatoes, she is transported, to her meeting place of judgement. An almighty bellowing, I shudder during the rage, what is going to happen to the little girl, a woman made adolescent in her thinking, an undeveloped level of maturity. She was halted, marred by illness, her mind stunted during precious formative years, so, we cannot blame her, of life and suggestion we can only recommend. Remove her! the cavalry are instructed, bring her to my nose! And, they do so, because they know that with this giant his desires must never be ignored or overthrown, and here he observes her with keen interest as she stands, miniscule on his open palm, shuddering and quietly whimpering, like an anxious puppy on edge, she somehow knows she must fight to keep quiet. He roughly strokes her head with a heavily ridged fingertip, within his eyes is pleasure, he must learn her, then discard her, learn every piece of her, take advantage of the moment, then keep her for only long enough that others will know of her absence. Then return, return, to my fleeting dreams, to catch upon something else, and remain forever lost, never to return home, it seems. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
A distinguished yew tree silently stands before me, speaking of regeneration and rebirth and all that is everlasting, within my heart it resides, while monumental, it is a temporary fixture, nonetheless an awe-inspiring picture. Who planted this reminder for me, to never give up? A sign that, during times of impassioned illness and ill choices there is still hope? The yew promises me time will continue on, and there will always be that turning point known as Hope. My mind aches at the thought of beings once in my world, who, in their dilapidated state could not draw themselves away from the saddening muck that stills their lives, some remain happy to exist in their quagmire, they feel their current situation is something to treasure. There is no sign of a yew for them to never give up, any hope for advancement has sadly been pinned down. Talk of hopes and dreams is dismissively cast aside, too difficult, too unattainable, unmanageable, by their own reasoning. I want to show them my yew. I wish to inspire them, too. Had I remained sunken in my mud pit, I may have drowned like the rest of them, a reflection into an ability of an awful mentality, dark times, though infrequent, featured, clouded heavily. Now, my tree becomes a home for my thoughts, within its leaves and branches I bury my phrases, my toiled words, my loose metaphors, because maybe at a later point, they’ll come in handy, or at least perhaps they’ll remain as personal pictures, destined to become tidy and used mindfully. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved. Image by Ilona Ilyés from Pixabay
Depression hits my aura like a stoning I crumble beneath the view fetal-like shell-shocked I’m trying but my best is never good enough seemingly humoured toward the end. Your life is different to mine, and while I am thankful for some memories I want to curl tighter and tighter, keep you away I’d be lying if I said you entirely caused the hurting. When it came time, I felt no cord being severed it had already vanished from existence, entangled lines once wound like vintage telephone cords neatly arranged in little camps of yours and mine. And while I can comfort myself with bitter feelings of how I was so hard done by and mistreated for the most part it’s tiresome mind-trickery nonsense only truly applicable to when the gradual silence decided to speak. And it haunts, it haunted, billowing in the chambers of my mind, when I recall times when our hearts were perfectly entwined, but letting go of each other, we both really didn’t seem to mind. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved.
I am exhausted. Tired of the crowd’s prying eyes when all I’m doing is wallowing and huddling. I want nothing more than this sharp oversensitiveness of my skin to stop this crawling feeling, because I can feel the touches, the curious fingertips dragging, on the skin of a woman made of parchment who bears her interior just enough, just enough to cause criticism. Though, that wasn’t her, sorry, my intention, and I watch my parchment weep from my arms, my forehead, my torso, catching the sheets, I frantically scrawl and scrawl before I forget the present thought processes, I wish to save them all. They are precious to me, if inapplicable to others, I am still allowed to self-indulge. Written words can silence me with their beautiful calligraphy and I learn from sources beyond the nearby gumtree or nearest paperbacks, I seek to learn from the greatest, who titillate my senses, now raised goosebumps upon my sensitive paper-thin skin, it no longer crawls with distastefulness but instead it is inspired. I read and read, absorbing skillful words, and wanting nothing more than appreciation and education from those far finer in skill than I, poised with vocabularies resplendent and fuller than a flushed Renaissance bosom, I shudder with appreciation I love this feeling it is one of great calling. And inspired once more, my exhaustion all but forgotten, I bind myself with tight parchment bandages and set my pen into sight. I am ready, I will recommence my style, flowered by the blossoming of others' inspiration, all it takes it that certain escape, a wondrous trip out into the open. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. All images signed “LMH” are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock and all rights reserved. Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay
Hey, let us not be so hasty, let us not be so rash. Instead, let us flow with the sun and the wind entwined as one, woven with thrice strands, a plaiting of joyous warmth, breeze, and cheer neatly entangled by a pair of deft, invisible hands. I admire the sun for the effort she makes each day, no matter how low or despondent she may feel, she always rises for us, no matter anything, she won’t allow the world to weigh her down. Nothing troublesome seems to cross her path, or get in her way, she is never dismayed, at least not visibly but into confused darkness we may be thrust when considering what lies in the heart of another when we don't know precisely what causes their pain, joy, ecstasy, or sorrow. The sun always brings a burning intensity, if we were to bring ourselves close enough to the fair maiden, we too could experience her true potential of expression though, she insists on brightening the way for her king, she selects the path of righteousness; she promotes his healthy well-being. Sun shines her cordiality onto the path which is set for a man of great mystery, perhaps of deep melancholy but someone definitely dusted with the makings of luminescent mastery, make way now, it is evening, it's time to introduce the Man of the Moon. She and he share the same skies during the light of day, but at night, his lost lover is nowhere to be seen, she has upped and away. His misery at being permitted nary a moment with her, only observing Sun during the clouded skies from afar, a teasing of his heart which miserably plucks at guitar strings, breaking the strums into dismayed delayed arpeggios rather than solid ringing chords. Heartbroken, the Man of the Moon waits for her all night, glowing hopefully, yearning, silently begging for her to rise and turn her wondrous face his way, but then the night winds to an end, erasing any fervent hope, now an empty lull in his heart, he will reposition himself where he now belongs, and soon, Sun returns to the blue skies, just out of reach from her admiring love. Let us not be so hasty, I repeat in a whisper, let us explore the beauty of this day and morning, again with wild abandon, because while time now seems so slow it is succinct in its fleeting moments and is amazingly precious, don’t allow these days to pass us by, I want to remember our times when our hearts were as broad as Sun's grinning orange-quartered mouth, filled with the tartness of freshly squeezed juice and the vitality of our youth. The sun smiles down upon us and gives me a mischievous wink as though she wholeheartedly agrees. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Tarishart from Pixabay
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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