when you breathed life into me, i felt my tight ribbons unfurl, the edges of me curling under, towards my heart, decorating me whole. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay There are moments of brightness among the numbness. A shine that burns through the darkness. Whoever brings you freedom, cherish them. Hold their presence close.
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
I’ve too much time on my hands. For some, this would be paradise, but for me, it’s a continual, rising obsession of poetry and revisions filling my mind. I can spend hours and hours retouching a word, retouching another phrase, here and there, rephrasing this and rewording that, the stresses of syllables hold great power, I am aware. Too much time is dangerous, I work arduously and arduously even if my words may be ill received, I strive for perfection, the utmost that I can, though I need to recognise my work isn’t the centre of everything, it is not all-encompassing. But, for me, it’s a driving obsession, the need to write, correct, edit and rephrase, to ‘right the wrongs’, as they say, my words, they have too much time to be altered, at night, I lay stagnant yet wide awake. My phrases cannot sit and marinate in their juices of potent honesty, because, I won’t allow this: changes and niggling, internal suggestions are currently what compel me. So, what to do with this obsession? This drive for perfection, or as close to it? The need to present the best I can, that’s healthy, but this method I’m experiencing is causing an unpleasant reaction. I could close the computer down, walk away for days or hours, but I’m far too attached; I’m stuck, to write continually is my life now, it has become that part of me where upon the gap in my heart has been sewn. The stitching, the patching, of that broken, missing piece, is now where bushels of words and truth are overgrown, and my words, in your mind, I will speak – I’ll find it difficult if I were to ever let go. Too much time has its setbacks, I’ll shut my notebook, close the computer down, when will I learn to slow my mind down? When will I learn to leave my words alone?© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by nile from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Some may view me as mechanically sound, for I smile quite naturally and talk with a lilting, confident tone. My words are humorous, relaxed, and 'well', they don’t know what’s hiding inside, the astringent sadness, she overwhelms. Internally, I feel stretched, as though a punishing thin layer has been made out of me, a conglomeration of bones, tendons, sinew enters the picture, a rolled flat image from my pieces, made from my core, I am thin, thin, thin; you can almost see through me. I am not ticking timepieces and cogs well oiled, I am bits of paper-thin skin and bone attended to with the most callous of ease, the beings who made me into this sheet of paper-thin madness, is the prior mentioned Mistress of Sadness, and her partner, Despicable Depression. These two are entwined with the same cruel feelings, they feed off one another, take victims cold and easily, they mean harm, I promise, when I explain, when I say, that Mistress and Despicable aim at pulverising, they’ve already done me, haven’t they? I have been made into a sheet of nothingness, my structure broken and melted and flattened, I do not know how I’m meant to feel or be or understand, that my existence is but a sham, I wear that smile, I wear this wellness, so people won’t misunderstand. The thinness is a curse. I am truly damned. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by PIRO4D from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Sometimes, occasionally, I feel like I’m coming back to life. When the outer layers peel down and around me, revealing the scintillating softness inside. So curious am I to view and feel and touch this part of my identity, where I am completely vulnerable and wholesome and completely, utterly me. This nature of myself is obvious to all, yet still some are oblivious, they are unused to this type of enthrall in which I project a certain quietness, an ethereal truth that whispers and ebbs and flows amongst the undergrowth - these moments are special, they herald timely news. The tactile response of hand upon softness upon treasured flesh upon raw skin, surrounded by that delicate fog, sensations of seeking something internally, I’m curious, what does this softness of myself really mean? Am I gentle? Does my kindness live nestled in the undergrowth, behind those protective outer layers? Should I keep revealing this side, this part of me, so vulnerable I am to others? It’s as though I’m a lost babe in the woods, bare and so innocent, I smile, grin with a single infant tooth, I am away from home, yet I am right here, there is nothing to worry for, be concerned about, to fear, because my softness is finally here, and of my strength, such internal, unseen strength, I am quietly aware. Beneath the layers, I’ve finally found myself and I am so proud to be here. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Marjon Besteman-Horn from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
I cherish: the wind whipping about my hair, the still-bitter taste of sweetened coffee – it reminds me life’s not always sweet. The taste of crunchy cereal in the evenings, the gentle tap-tapping of conscientiously-used computer keys. The welcome inertia of remaining in bed long after a nap, the loving words spoken to me, that from anyone else would be cliché, a feeling of coming home to family after a weekend away, their smiles from the couch as they greet you warmly, knowing that you were and are always wanted, it is a fact that will remain. The solitude offered when I simply want to work while being alone in the comfort of another’s company, the powerful sensation of breathing, absorbing, into my cold being, the warmth of another’s close body, a hand, a gentle stroke, reminding me that my world is quietly amazing. I appreciate the little things, though they can be so often hard to see, taken for granted, I must force my eyes open, willingly breathe these blessings in. Sometimes we can be distracted by things which overwhelm and seem of more import, but I shall share this with you, appreciate your life, your blessings – I know that I’ve been blinded temporarily, but I now know and appreciate what I have before me. Because we must cherish and treasure the little things, they’re so easy to dismiss, to sweep aside and complain of petty things, or focus on other areas of our lives. Betroth yourself to the memories, the circumstances, the power of love, of consideration, and if you cannot, perhaps something will appear, reminding you of your blessings with its intervention. Perhaps you’ll feel alerted, eyes wide open to that which is before your very eyes, and I wonder, I wonder to myself, will we see or remain blind? © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
I’ll admit it. Depression must be settling in. The sadness has quietly crept into my clothing and then into my bones, until I’ve become used to his company. I snipe at little things, take offense, wallow with despair, I want to reject this feeling, but I am too languid, I need some form of interjection. But my mouth, my tongue seems far too fat and lazy to conjure itself into the words, Leave me alone; I don’t want your company, because his is the only partnership I can envisage that’s making me feel so utterly lonely even when surrounded by those who care for and love me. He’s like that tight, oppressive, unwelcome sweater that you try on from years earlier, to see whether the style still fits, still suits you, and you realise that his sizing is just not right for you. And you can’t throw him off, emotional you become, engulfed in the face by years-old musty scent, from the attic my depression now becomes, he suffocates, I panic, I try to escape. It seems too hard though, to throw this sinister, insipid being off. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Ulrike Mai from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Every morning is the same for me, I rise, I pad, I create hot water that I stain black with bitterness, a substance that does please. I open my laptop, attend to the various avenues, hoping, wishing, waiting, for the stats to reveal certain clues. Is it bad to hope for the 'views'? Is it bad to desire more 'likes'? As someone who creates, I feed off the sensation that my work has some effect upon other people's lives. But views without likes, now that’s an interesting notion, they make my heart sink slightly, but I shan’t allow any sense of commotion, angst, anguish, or weighty rumination, to permit these existence would be unwise, something unwarranted, better to learn from whichever mistake was performed and for my next creation strive for something more appealing and perfected. There is no shame in understanding that occasionally one shall err and one will fail at being the effervescent, welcoming being that appeals to most, but then again, some enjoyed the darker side of me, my prior pain, the rapid rise, the subsequent self-imposed suffering, they empathised with these moments, perhaps because they proved that humankind can fall, from my delicate mantelpiece I had fled, took my leave before them all. I suppose it’s better to vary what I show of myself, a slow striptease? I'll undress myself to reveal not my skin, not my muscles, not my bones, but my inner strength, the quiet fortitude that lives within me, to reveal the true nature of myself, why, this is what I hope others will wish for and quietly desire to read. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Sorry about that! I say, and scoot out of the way. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. Sometimes my ideas carry offense, fall flat on their face, when will I learn to discern? It’s okay, you reassure, there’s no harm in experimenting, but sometimes what you think is entertaining is just damned wrong and overwhelming. I agree, I return, I’ll tell you the truth, I try really hard to gain favour from you. I know, we know, we empathise with your plight, better to write something, and not post it, instead, sleep on it for the night. Then awake with fresh eyes, a fresh mind, and then you’ll be ready to say: rubbish bin or approved pile?? Your post has been published: waa-hey! © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
The computer helps you lie, it’s a well-known fact of life, the ability to dance fingertips on keys like the Devil’s never-ending trill. They fly across, a flurry, and suddenly, without me knowing, fiction has taken over, that’s welcome news to me. No more disguising of one’s facts, like bullets shot impolitely, rat-a-tat-tat, into the abdomen of a reader, they no longer feel my hurt, because fiction can prove softer, than truth over fact, the computer helps me lie, creates a differing life. A world where I can tell porkies, they’re welcome little tales, embraced they are by pin-pricked ears, lulled into a sense of quiet interest that ebbs and flows and swells. And what say you to my actual truths? can I reveal them, too? Sometimes it’s better to live fictitiously, it’s safer here for you. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Exhausted, I roll into bed, does it roll back into me? That’s a question for myself, do you think it does so tenderly? The doona now wraps himself around me, presumptuous, he takes up over half the bed, it does not matter there’s nobody laying next to me, that space is for me to sprawl, not for Doona to spread! Electric Blanket quietly sizzles to himself, cackling softly as he overheats and overwhelms me, in the midst of my sweaty nightmare that is of my imagination’s frightening making, and the heat which he throws from beneath me. My socks want to escape, one is flowing from my ankle, the other is barely held by Big Toe, I scramble with opposing feet to Save the Socks from becoming redundant - oh wait, they already are. Doona has been thrown down, useless upon the ground, Electric Blanket is irritated his heat is no longer caressed, What about me? I am freezing! There’s no point doing anything but shuddering and trembling, sockless, without a blanket, it’s below zero degrees in Melbourne tonight! © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Pablo Elices from Pixabay
YouTube Poem videos: Lauren M. Hancock Poetry
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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