Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    Poem: Perfectly Ordinary – 15/02/20

    There will be times when you’re viewed as ordinary,
Nothing special about you.
Nothing that others can glimpse upon,
A spark,
A light,
They view you as nothing,
They pass you by.
 
Their eyes dart away when you meet their disengaged pair,
They don’t want to acknowledge you,
To validate your existence,
And while you shouldn’t care for how others may judge,
It hurts that tiny little bit,
They don’t know my story.
They don’t even care.
 
They view you as lowly,
They view you as beneath them,
Surely that’s why they possess that pathetic look in their eyes
That somehow proves your presence is unworthy of being in theirs.
 
I can view the fake smiles now,
The overly chirpy conversations,
Whereas once genuineness and sincerity were simply commonplace.
 
And I wonder, what has changed?
To make me be viewed lesser than what I am?
No matter how I take this,
It’s detrimental to my soul,
Because I’m a sociable being,
And being airily brushed aside for no apparent reason at all,
Seems unfair and something which may fling itself toward them,
Bite them,
Karma will come.  
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    Poem: Inner Light – 15/02/20

    There is a light within
Shrouded by a sheer curtain
That burns brightly for every one of us.
 
Some are able to know of,
Acknowledge its presence,
While others are unable to determine its reality at all.
 
However, truth be told,
Within us all, this flame burns brightly,
We need not concern ourselves if it flickers from time to time,
Dangerously, or just a sway, rhythm and rhyme.
 
My flame is tender,
My flame is small and serene,
What may yours be like?
Take a closer inspection,
And see within.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Poem: The Rainbow Bower – 14/02/20

    Something shiny,
something bright,
she collects with her clutching fingers for an
internal sense of delight.
 
Like a bower bird yet not,
tall, gangly, lean,
her vigilant eyes dart for specific shades which will
perfect that rainbow sheen which
she’s placed upon her bedspread,
 
laid out for her eyes to sumptuously absorb their beauty,
her very own rainbow
created by her own hands,
materials found and designed.
 
She is becoming more like that bower bird
yet by the world mostly unseen,
though still one of a kind,
here she needs not fight to be heard,
a potent lustre, it gleams.
 
She doesn’t collect to impress,
to lure another into her nest,
no, these shades are purely for her,
her heart beats wildly as she blots spilled ink
in colours known only in her realm.
 
Turquoise mixed with a purple sheen,
what would you call this?
Peacock green, she labels him,
he is now part of her luscious scene.
 
And the ripe aroma of baby pink with clashing red,
what will she label that?
What will her imagination draw upon next?
 
She rolls in the hues now,
her eyes brighten and enliven with her soul,
her spirit, it soars, encapsulating the room,
while outside her window, watches the playfully observant Moon.
 
This rainbow bower has much to offer,
she has much to extend to this world
but only in the privacy of her bedroom
can she truly extend, to exhibit her colours
or collect the shades,
because outside these four walls,
if she shared her triumphant secret collection,
the world would be blinded,
temporarily yet wondrously amazed,
she prefers to remain in hiding.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by cm_dasilva from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    Poem: Devil’s Straw – 11/02/20

    I had this dream that I returned to the animal’s pen,
and our main pet was as dead as could be.
Her little babies curled and stiff,
there was no sign as to what the cause of death may be.
 
Within the straw-filled pen also was the demented form of a
devil-plagued horned being,
it was frightening in itself,
the eyes, his eyes, were red and malformed,
as though anger diffused from them.
 
I could not touch the bodies,
I had to ask my male companion to do so,
he picked them up awkwardly,
all within one raised hand so as though to avoid
further contamination or some such.
 
My precious little babies,
lying there in the pen like unwanted things,
preyed upon by the creature with grotesque horns,
I could not save them,
I did not know,
how could I be expected to be there for every second,
every minute,
that passed by their lives,
kept them in tow?
 
And now I wonder where they will lay,
where my companion will place their hardened, curled tail forms,
And now I see, I understand the meaning,
of a devil truly plaguing and causing the deaths of all around him.
 
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by WikiImages from Pixabay
 

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  • Poem: Goodbye, Anger – 10/02/20

    Poem: Goodbye, Anger – 10/02/20

    I’m depleted of it.
Instead, replaced is a feeling of desolation within my being,
a rolling stone headed for the bottom of a hill
to crash into nothingness with no witnesses.
 
Alone is how I feel,
empty of the ideal chase which I sought to counsel myself
in order to become a better person,
to develop into something amazing,
someone who will strike others positively upon meeting.
 
I want that aura that speaks to whomever is in contact with me and it,
a feeling bursting with affection and timely truth,
I want so much more, but I cannot articulate it,
I understand that to reveal all would be foolish.
 
But I have not withheld much during my angry moments, 
my words which slashed and divided,
into pretty little ugly pieces that just weren’t meant for
existence
I’ll tell you,
I want to create something out of bliss.
 
The time for angst and anger has passed, I do believe,
they have had their trial by jury,
and they have been committed to the ward for lifetime insanity,
No?
Perhaps they’ll return again in due course,
but for now I will immerse myself in the scents of lavender and ylang-ylang,
A curious mixture but one which permits further healing.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: Rearranged into Them – 07/02/20

    Poem: Rearranged into Them – 07/02/20

    Disembody the I from the I from the I!
Rearrange the me into them!
Tell the tales in a cheery manner,
engage them,
I will do my best, I promise.
 
There once lived a princess who was trapped in her mind.
In a tower she rose each day and night.
But this tale is not about her anguish,
it is not about her at most nor least,
this tale is about you,
You, I must please.
 
I will tell you of how I’m taking steps forward,
the right steps to take,
but all the while an exploration to the left and right,
a compass point I can neither promise nor paint.
 
But progress is being made,
I am certain, I am assured of this,
little mishaps though, occur in the thin breeze.
 
Are these signs or merely coincidences?
I think you know which way some might lean,
but I will go with common sense and call these accidental,
the breeze becomes a gust,
brings me to my knees.
 
And I see you there,
wanting, waiting,
perhaps a desire to continue listening,
but I am decidedly spent of words,
I care not to divulge my plans,
maybe they don’t even exist,
either way, I’ll cherish something within cupped hands.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

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  • Poem: A Favourite Topic – 07/02/20

    Everyone’s favourite subject is surely themselves,
they can wax lyrical, wax lyrical all day.
Pinocchio lived in a little wood maker’s cottage,
and he had so much to expound upon,
such little truth to state.
 
And grow his nose did,
upon speaking of untruths,
are we punished for occasionally convoluting our truths?
 
As we take on personas,
to press ahead with a message or idea,
some fairy tales come alive,
but some exist with the knowledge that
some memories are best held quiet and dear.
 
But what of the tales we tell of ourselves?
A little bending at the wishing well where we reach into,
to drop our unwanted mirth?
For the ailing feeling has crept away, normalcy returning,
but only partially, you see,
and it seems useless in not exploiting a sense of victimisation
that was experienced the past weeks.
 
Now gossip,
town gossip,
as they speak of themselves,
and speak of that girl, or that boy,
from across the well,
where they’ll thrown their own lucky pennies,
wishing upon coins and stars,
hoping for something else to share
with others,
all about themselves,
while with most there’s a decent element of narcissism to disarm.    

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by 250432 from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Hidden Beauty – 07/02/20

    Poem: Hidden Beauty – 07/02/20

    There is so much beauty within our world,
so much to garner, to pluck from our sweeping sight,
to take into our soul,
to enliven the spirit,
to entwine the experience as ours and as well told.
 
But when one internalises and despairs
and experiences this aching bug which overwhelms,
one wallows, and it cannot be easily purged,
the beauty steps back,
it recedes into the crowd.
 
And sometimes I think,
how must I gather the sparkles dancing within my eyes
when to me, they appear like dull speckles of heavy foam,
sinking, heavy with the oil of misery and despair,
it’s all a matter of perspective,
how one assumes the surrounding air.
 
So much beauty, yet some beings are trapped,
they do not choose to instead view ugliness,
their perception is cast this way,
perhaps they’ve had a bad day, hour, even week,
perhaps they’re submerged in the darkness of depression and they can’t
claw themselves up.
 
Have a heart for these who seemingly humour themselves too much,
they are not all choosing to be this dark,
they might be wishing for brighter tomorrows.
 
Some aren’t as lucky to receive this answer to their prayers,
or their begging to the fairies who are supposed to light their way,
or the Godliness above who directs and watches o’er all,
the soul, the soul, the soul will be held,
it will be treasured,
and the hidden lustre in our hearts spread with firm painterly strokes.  

There is hope among the desolate grounds.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

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  • Poem: Rich Blood – 06/02/20

    Poem: Rich Blood – 06/02/20

    Blood pumps through my veins,
potent, rich, disastrous,
cells which slip and slide,
speaking of a invasive nature that is hereditary.
 
The mishaps which befit my existence were
invisible to begin with,
then with coercion,
coaxing,
they came forth.

The personality changes,
the heights the lows,
the outstanding misunderstandings,
 
the delusory nature of my illness,
it startles,
the non-stop talk,
the mania,
the lack of self-control,
the coping devices.
 
But those days, hopefully,
those relapses are behind me
and all I need to maintain
is my health,
an understanding that I must be both vigilant and alert.
 
The blood pulsates through my veins,
and I wonder how difficult it will be to remain 
in the realm of wellness
or even clutching to the surface,
just as long as I don’t plummet
or fly,

but up and up and away would be nice,
I’d like that for change,
but then, I wouldn’t,
illness' propellant and subsequent crash is not a blast,
thought it might appear so
experienced that way.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Dyversions from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Language of the Birds – 06/02/20

    Poem: The Language of the Birds – 06/02/20

    Manipulative and depressed?
I’ve been assessed,
thank you to this deck of birds,
by my own hand, I’ve been able to determine,
that which the world may think of me.

Selfish and unkind is perhaps how I am perceived,
because of the manner in which I composed my words,
expounded my poetry.
Through depression, through illness and anger and tribulation,
that is what has come about.
 
I cannot dream of anything other than spurting forth what is within me,
to censor, to flag myself,
it is an indelicate picture.
 
Though, of course, some writings must be withheld,
but understand, with wellness,
my true being returns,
my flames riding the curve of my back.
 
And beneath the crescent moon which waxes and emits 
a necessity for persistence and change,
I will preen myself of any loose ends that don’t need to be there,
the challenge is not removing the flames which are unrequired,
in fact, damn it all, I’ll engulf myself,
you know this firebird will never truly expire.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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