excited parallel universe where our motives selfishly meant were never truly met but in our beings we felt those irrevocable dents start to mend or were they beginning to spread? hard to decipher, the sensations felt
young crushes soft passions gentle touches flushed complexions rough grabs forced giggles becoming something I didn’t want to acknowledge to please to be to allow him to feel to see “me” being right for him
always that alteration for them never for me projection motivations incorrect feelings, felt triumph theirs, mine? I’m not certain though during the time, a certain type of divine victory — in that moment, they, he, whomever, were mine.
the chameleon-like transformation, the desire rising and gaining and now the self-annihilation: who am I really when I’m being something falsified for another?
playing these games all well and good but for some time losing sight of my inner flowers blossoms growing stagnant fragrance now putrid and pungent. for the scent of desperation and conformed coercion was, well, so wrong.
and now I’m older I won’t allow this again for myself I will rise from these rubbish requests these wanton blatant desires specific request, the audacity, I cannot get over, change yourself? I didn’t request any amendments for you, because I’m not rude in that manner.
time honoured traditions how I carry them on board deep within the recesses of my memory within my heart, it’s sure, warble yet for the things which I care for damsel in distress I am not because I am in control.
smilingly and coyly, I take in the scene what is before me oh, how I love to dream, appreciating what is mine and what will be yours knowing that happiness is the source of all these things
enlightenment comes in many forms, which form is yours? where is the charm in knowing which will highest, soar, with the moment, with the memories of what has come to past, what I need is the love, the love to continue, right, to last…
with a grip of death-like stability I reach onto the relaxing scene for my mind allows me to be there, know there, understand there is something which is as lustrous and glimmering as mermaid hair,
and carry on until the ending for it will never be reached because I am constantly evolving, I have made sure of this. (01/11/21)
Haunted are her eyes above a winsome smile, wistful character is she, hoping for more in a while.
Fallen by the wayside, all her trickery, her witchery, her cosmetics, her haberdashery.
By goodness what is told beneath those furrowed brows? Heavy times envisaged, poignant moments told, she loves to flicker her eyes from the land to the sea, a calming peacefulness takes over she.
Without her layers, which peeled away one by one, she’s naked as the babe she entered the world as, all magic spells come undone, without the falsity of rare moments of rage, she no longer finds herself or others disharmoniously caged.
For their prison was this – requirements to abide by society, she just wants to flow now, rippling waves, breathe, gasp freely, ride the swells of less commotion, battle away prior despair, no longer a ‘witch’ but a fair haired innocent maiden…
What was wrong with her sorcery? She’d not ever know, only condemned for being different, not lining up in conforming rows, her magic is what she held pride in, what made her so proud, shriek and cackle she wishes now, to elaborate aloud.
They have changed her, made her ‘pure’, sootiness cast away, undo, undo, bring back the smudges, the unsightly smears, her darkness is, was, forthcoming, can you feel it, dears? There’s so much she has to say, watch as the pretences fall away.
Orchids wilt in the hot room. It is summer here, outside, a belligerent winter with a dying, poorly Moon. They have thrown themselves from their stakes. Stakes which were there to provide safety, protection, backboned projections.
The orchids, they are careless, for they have left their safe havens, their ties have been cut, severed from the heaven they once grew towards, now wilted, lethargic.
What a sorry sight for eyes, used to falling upon beauty, now dejection and misery, once-taut, now lacklustre under the oppressive heat’s fury, the split system churns out Celsius, five and twenty, degrees of measure too hot for the orchids, whom cannot stop wilting.
Their heads, they can barely lift, too much of a trouble it is to subsist, rejection of the support because I cannot, will not, do not want to entertain that foggy breath of mist, morning time offers some solace when the fiery heater does its trick.
I reside in this moment with you, beneath a lurid supermoon, its aura as precious as that fateful ‘oops’ moment when paths would intersect in artificial yet hounding gloom. I did not know it was necessarily the beginning of something fresh, yet also something promising pain, future blues, but shining through these circumstances are tid-bits of wonder, sparkles, delight would and does fly, I have to say, perfected upon many days and hours.
Do I reminisce only on the appropriate moments, forgetting, forgiving, where I should not? The mental cavities, the pine-wood rot carrying, housing all these ill feelings I’d rather not transport? Perhaps I do, maybe block out the noise, sometimes certain people always have a pathway back into your life. And this is what I must say, where pieces of flung, shattered heart will not remain, after breaking I will have assistance from others, I need not perform surgery in vain.
What seems warranted does not appear so to others, but internally, there is that pull, an indescribable power, that this person must remain, must return, like their presence was never cast aside, and so I ignore their former mental trains, their ability to cause hurt to my heart, aching and anger all the same. I excuse the errors, I forgive, forgive, somewhat naively, but that’s the price I decide to pay if I want fulfilled my detailed, scrawled yearnings. The other’s self-conditioning is shining, winking, striding, not simply pacing, or aimlessly meandering. Fierce determination, flexing strength which is no longer alien, I watch by softly, shallowly breathing, within our cocoon, residing.
Photo by Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well
Unlike a
leopard that will never change its spots, this girl has shed her spotted print.
She has altered her life for the better, she has cast aside those undesirable
traits which lurked within. She is different now, careful, yet carefree, light
as a feather. Her heart and mind are filled with gladness, there is nothing to
cause her to be grumbled and sour nor overly candid.
Unlike that
leopard which will forever hold its spots, she has deterred herself from
behaviours that are unnecessary, unnoteworthy, and which had not aided her plight,
nor changed her for the better. Now she is wholesome in goodness, rested in the
night and brightened in the day. There is little she yearns for, because she has
them provided for her and by her in many and most ways.
In her world she searches for moments of true happiness, sparkles in her eyes, plucked from the skies by fingertips eager for more twinkling light, and she carries these sparks inside of her, releases them inside her billowing heart, large enough and large enough it becomes, for her world which was often torn apart.
Now she holds so many sparkling love-bugs, brightness inside her chest, that she smiles to herself, secretively loving the fact that she has her own collection, to keep them at their best. Where she will nurture their glistening hopeful selves, reminding her to cherish everything tiny and immaculate, whether minute or precious within her world, and live with the understanding that some human leopards can shed their prints even at the worst of times.
After all, it’s only a pattern, and a habit can be formed in so many days, how easy enough it has been to displace her negative traits, and place herself within a desirable loving stage.
He creeps on prong-like legs, looking for something upon which he can work his paint laden head Because this contraption cross creepy crawly is here to transform private rooms in dire straits one feature wall at a time.
He wholly enjoys no, correction, he experiences much mirth, from dipping and rolling upon the ugly outdated shades and hues of olden times that were deemed as more than beautiful enough.
He feels and knows he is doing the world - or at least the owners of the rooms a great service - by creepy-crawly-rolling along their walls that were doing their owners an utter disservice.
He knows how to carefully navigate his pointy feet away from the fresh paint on one occasion he’d stepped in the fresh trail and after being screamed at? Never again!
From then on, his feet were placed delicately outside of the paint trail, he understood that to be useful he had to correct errors immediately without any time for a thought to be preserved about it still; it had to be automatic, no mistakes, no fails.
His method of painting also had to be methodical not of madness or franticness painting feature walls might be boring but boy wasn’t the enjoyment of viewing the pleased owner’s pleased eyes ultimately worth it?
This is what he lives for to change the world of others arduously labouring rolling here and there day in and day out without any care for himself: personal time he has done without.
He wishes for others’ happiness he knows that to attain this that his glorious paint jobs are the solutions, and one-by-one he transforms the world of a couple, single, or family at a time, While their smiles are collective, Appreciative as one.
The Imaginative Little Caterpillar could transform into things! With the power of his mind he could draw forth his convoluted dreams. He’d always wanted to be a pink park ranger, or a charismatic carpenter, or an amazingly awesome astronaut who could explore here and there, or a ferocious fire-breathing fireman, these he could all transform into without a worry, concern or care.
As he gazed into the mirror after his transformation into a kazoo playing pet kangaroo, he swung his hips this way and that, thinking to himself, “Well! How did I do!” But these transformations only lasted for the day, the moment he placed his head upon his partially ripped cocoon, he lost the idea of how to transform into this or that being or person that night, he wished for an idea, another convoluted dream to come to him soon.
Why were his dreams deemed convoluted when they were simply dreams to alter, to change, the imaginative little caterpillar into another’s different life stage? They were deemed as such because he knew not how the transformations occurred, but to him they were much, much, much more special than simply lying and crawling in the dirt. He did not wish to live that life, to crawl and scrabble in the dirt and sand, he was far too intelligent to allow the dirt to command. It stuck upon him, made him yucky and gross, his transformation dreams were what excited him the most.
Then one morning he felt a great urge to wrap himself, rather than becoming someone else. He attached himself to a twig then slowly, slowly he wrapped himself with silken threads that covered his body so large. And there he hung for eighteen days precisely, being patient, strong minded, and calming, waiting and wondering what on earth would happen when he was able to expel himself from this kind of a body nest, a tight wrapping.
Then the moment arrived, he felt it right to of this world be reborn, to come again alive, and as he separated from the cocoon, he felt extra long legs stretch, and observing to his right and his left, an enormously beautiful wingspan in his sight! Oh, how his heart filled to the brim, at looking at what would now carry him, flying him around the world, above the earth, such a pleasant means of transportation, no longer rolling in the dirt.
No more did this Newborn Butterfly need to transform into other people or forms, when what had been awaiting within him, the power inside, to transform him into the unique form he needed was one of special great worth. He was now pleased, he was delighted, he was so happy deep inside, that for the next three days he flew about the place with no method to his madness, no place to sit and decide. What move to make, where to further go, and for the last day of his exploration, he laid down and from him, something small, a short burst, decided to go. His last breath of life, after his excited exploring last few days, the life of a butterfly was short, but wasn’t it so beautiful to have experienced those days anyway.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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