Tag: writing

Part I: The Ebb and Flow of Healing

 Press forth,
 her gesture whispered,
 you can do it,
 reach that realm.
  
 Her hand gently pressing the 
 small of my back,
 encouragement to reach that certain angel.
  
 An angel who would heal me,
 remove from me all 
 the pain and 
 suffering
 that I was feeling,
  
 brought upon me by a being 
 so nasty and calculated,
 I don’t know why or how I loved him. 
  
 With him I felt the drag,
 with her I was allowed to
 be myself,
  
 I could stay awake until three,
 write, draw pictures, sing, dance,
 do anything.
  
 Feverishly I wrote and wrote,
 wrote and posted, 
 in my crumbling state of 
 heightened illness,
 I made sure I was heard by my world.
  
 These people, I did not know
 who I had reached,
 whether I was well received
 or even understood.
  
 But the numbers didn’t matter,
 it was the act of self-expression,
 to be prolific in my work 
 was very important.
  
 It was most important 
 that the ideas were expelled from me
 like endless buzzes from a 
 curious yet insidious bee
 turned rogue wasp,
 I wanted to be belligerent in my exposes,
 to a certain degree.
  
 Because some needed to be spoken of,
 others needed to be hidden and taken care of,
 but I most needed healing –
 purging was my means of achieving this.
  
 Meditation also called to me,
 I practiced it religiously,
 sometimes thrice daily. 
  
 And once I removed the 
 sin from my system,
 forced upon me via devilish means,
 I felt a sense of tearing,
 a breakage within,
 I wept and wept as though 
 a staining upon my soul
 had been removed. 
  
 I healed in her presence
 but I still longed for the perpetrator,
 in both my mind and reality 
 he was the culprit
 but of my heart, 
 somehow he would be my saviour.

Part II: The Cost

 He came into my life, 
 she came into yours,
 jealousy seemed to rear its ugly head.

 We had always had each other,
 but now we had lovers to occupy our 
 hearts and time,
 less and less did we see each other, 
 and when we did, 
 mostly talk did we of our others in our lives.
  
 Becoming tamer and more domesticated
 we calmed in times of love and lust,
 another’s hand to hold and to accept us
 for who we really were in life.
  
 They seemed to be more
 than our friendship could provide,
 but these unions came at a certain cost.

Part III: Who I Once Thought You Were

 Who I once thought she was,
 is not who she is now,
 her new identity is now sharper, 
 harsher,
 well defined,
 strikingly and painfully real.
  
 Her care, love, and concern,
 dispersed to other sources,
 grown apart, it does seem,
 new friends in her current life courses.
  
 We were like slippery fish playing together,
 rolling in the deep, 
 enjoying each other’s company,
 slapping our tails playfully, 
 even taking on a curious eel 
 who simply wanted to grin.
  
 Then, prolonged silence, 
 we would no longer speak,
 for an age it would be that we would 
 not bother to take our fill of 
 each other’s words or efforts at counselling.
  
 Disapproval from both ends of the spectrum,
 who knew what was unfolding, if even anything?
 The silences initially made me angered,
 but I would not call, I would not give in.
  
 And so, I observe the changes, 
 not the physical, but the mental and emotional,
 it appears there is a great disconnect 
 and unsurprisingly 
 I can feel the presence of it. 
  
 My fellow slippery finned friend who was 
 once well featured in my life,
 where day by day we shared each other’s moments,
 then side-by-side we fell from one another’s 
 stories, both public and private. 
  
 And now it seems as though we are
 on the way to becoming strangers,
 it’s amazing how these things can unravel,
 this notion of being “best friends”
 it sometimes ends in upheaval. 

 © 2019 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  

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