carry on carry on
there is no time to regret
past mistakes are mere moments
take them with a grain of salt
nothing more they’re already spent
learnt lesson learning lessons yearning for more
in a while
because what is suffering is my heart
aching heart
for quite some time
with many a-frantic style
carry on dearest
there is nothing to fear
look forth for something sparkling
to focus your dreary eyes near
because you deserve that light in your eyes
the widened delight
god knows I was suffering many eons
many plights
just to meet my match
my path my past all down the drain
in fright? No, I will wrangle my memories
and set them alight
spent many hours weeks years
detailing this fight
this desperation
for someone to complete me
but here’s the crux of the suffering
I am here already
I am me
I don’t need to reach a hand out
to clasp another
to airily dream
to encapsulate me with this ambiguous other
for time, precious time
so much was wasted chasing mice not men
and then underneath the surface
were cataclysmic moments
but why ponder
why go under?
trudge forth
no, fly free,
being the best that I can be
and then I’ll announce myself as ready,
ready for the world to see
well, I’m already prepared, perhaps already there
it’s the journeying that means this much
so ever much to me.
(14/11/21)
Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Alexandru Acea on Unsplash
Tag: recording
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Poem and Spoken Word: carry on – 14/11/21
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Poem: Something Dear and Personal – Spoken Word and Text – 19/06/20
“Something Dear and Personal” – Spoken by myself. If something deeply personal is what you want to read, by all means settle in, grab hot cocoa, or steaming cup of tea. What can I share? What will I reveal? Grab desperately from my past? Drag forth contentious, gossip-worthy, or scintillating news? Will I or won’t I? That’s what you need to ask. Is it really necessary, am I required to put on a show? A song and dance of history of what I can recall, detailing what you may want or need to know? Why, no. No, no. There is no need for a show. But if there were, would it be: Tumultuous, bittersweet, even provocative? My goodness, no! Please! I am all subtleties, watch me as I respectfully curtsy, a dainty pirouette and now we’re back on topic, will I let the revelations flow with ease? Because I can test your patience by slowly, painstakingly, dragging out the rocks and pearls of the past, but what would be the point? It is better to look forward, the Past’s ship has sailed, hoorah! To the future we are delivered at last. Stories of old may have their place in a certain context, but for me, they rule no realm, in my world, they have no victorious reign, no power can the Past itself proclaim. Moving forward, I’m looking abroad, no furtive glances behind. Will you look at me? I’ve advanced myself: my goodness, oh, Lord! No firm facts here delivered, lips tightly sealed protecting a personal, precious prize. The past shall remain a closed book, it's what I've realised and decided, no need to ride those monstrous waves, the future, to me, looks perfect. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image: by myself. Background music: Documentary Background Music by AShamaluevMusic: https://youtu.be/il9HGo4hPjI Creative Commons — Attribution 3.0 Unported— CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/
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Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20
She’s had enough. Life, with its cruel measures, she’s defeated, broken, dare say surpassed feeling rough, her thoughts may not terrify, but they will reveal salted, open wounds. What is the point in detailing mediocre thoughts, some things which, in the moment, seemed thoughtful, and loving, caring, or clever, but of these qualities, her thoughts are apparently not. Instead she’s left with a soupy rendition of a mirroring of words that seem to fail to impress, for herself, she cannot bear to even re-read them, unworthy they are to share. Just a joke, self-doubt overwhelms, such a malignant disease it is, she wallows, bitter in the circumstances, she solemnly nurses her hot cup of tea. The sponge, its creative cells within her, that assisted her cushioned absorption of her many internal tunes is now blackened with thick sludge, her ideas stagnant, left to rot while they remain disused. Who is she to pull herself out from this torture, this slow drowning in grudge, sludge and grime, of phrases and turns which really aren’t that bold? Will she return to her true self with time? She once believed herself to be an enigma, misterioso, a chameleon, alter herself at will, now she is just herself, hollowed and despairing, thoughts no longer flitting amongst the trees, rather she’s dragging herself by her hands, crawling painfully on chaffed knees. She guesses this is what living means today, on this day, at least for her, salted wounds, depression, its lingering gloom, has long ago set in. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Jerzy Górecki from Pixabay Audio: Myself.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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