Ordinarily,
I’d change
for the better,
like I know I should.
Glancing into a reflection,
puddle, stigmatised mud,
confounded,
when shall I continue
truthfully and good?
I know,
as I stare at myself
that changes are to
occur more often
than not,
but how hard
will it be
for us to move forward
if certain thoughts
cannot be wrought,
or refashioned –
remembering?
I’d rather not.
My heart pounds;
is it caffeine or
my fluctuations,
my urge?
A desire to rid myself,
purge myself free
from the scourge
of daily intent,
perfection in
whatever forms
must be revealed,
must be seen,
and I can only
handle the odd,
hollow feeling
for a certain timed
moment of what
has already been.
With my very own eyes,
with that arresting gaze
that meets mine,
I can only understand
the thought patterns if
I were to purposefully
put myself behind
another’s guise,
but is it warranted?
To understand?
Completely, wholly?
My empty hands,
fill them with
useful knowledge so I can
finally see?
I don’t want to,
need to know,
no more shall I
travel through pathways,
neural journeys that
I’ve already seen,
done,
gone,
been.
The past is a determiner for not
resurrecting a future.
I need no scenes.
Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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