Pinned to the game of life, spin it for a consolation prize, perhaps you’ll win something extraordinary, either way, relish the pillaging of history.
The girl pinned on the wheel is there unwillingly, but she is there to provide smilingly, there is always something to gain from her presence.
Around and around and upside down, you’ll always win from her, the game of life, this suits her.
She’s unable to remove herself, free her stiffened limbs, but she is here and she is potent with her hidden mysteries.
She can speak of them freely, but why bother, some would balk, others would make her a pariah
Best she smiles away and preserves her words spin the wheel of life, there’s nothing of substance which she wants to share, nothing special which she’d rather say
I search high and low for someone to discover the truthful internal me. To connect and accept, a momentous moment to take hold.
Because I have been searching, aching, crawling for so long, in order to achieve that state of bliss which we call “Love”.
What does it feel like or mean to be truly accepted? To be considered as enough, more than enough so for another’s world?
In which you would be their everything, amazing for them, nothing more would they want, their journey, their search would also be done.
And link hands would we, together against the world, nothing will stop us from being our truthful identities, whatever we wish to become, together we will meld and ne’er come undone, because darling, let me say, you might really be the one.
We first met Layla the Ladybug in Our Whimsical World: Illustrated Stories, a cute little bug who unfortunately suffers from “Bugxiety” and receives relief from her condition by hugging trees. Nothing could quell her nerves faster than embracing a comforting trunk; it made her relaxed, less jittery, and allowed her to become herself at last.
Here she returns for a little fanciful flight, beneath the Christmas tree.
Layla the Ladybug was a cheery bug, she loved socialising and mixing with insects even wild hungry birds.
They did not snap her up with their beaks because she was their close friend, they looked upon her with respect, a wondrous familiar, their confidant.
But one day a nasty crow had had enough of her brightened mood, he chased her and gnashed his beak at her it frightened her betrayed heart!
She was lucky to have escaped in one piece, her immediate reaction had been to fly away, once safe, she pondered how to save herself from this horrid “bugxiety” day.
Now Layla the Ladybug trembled with displeasure, how could she rid herself of this nasty feeling? This apparent irreversible measure?
There was nowhere she could see that offered a great oaky tree something to wrap her arms around and grow a mighty inner power.
Because when she clutched a tree’s trunk she felt stronger, bolder, lighter, her condition would ease with great speed, and suddenly in the corner of her eye she spots a glistening Christmas tree!
The anxiety at needing to reach the pine in time caused further palpitations in her chest her heart it beat irregularly, she could make it, if she dared!
And finally, with breath escaping her mouth, winded, with a stitch on the right, she landed before the mighty Christmas tree and gleefully hugged it with all her might.
Why not order a copy or two of Our Whimsical World as Christmas gifts for your loved and cherished ones? It is filled with colourful illustrated stories laced with inner meanings and morals that will keep your family intrigued and discussing them long after.
Join Layla and other whimsical, fantastical and wholesome characters and their tales, appropriate for all ages, sectioned for younger, to slightly older, and older readers.
We swing high and swing low, exhilarating heights, devastating falls. Because what occurs where we play nice and then with fire? Our hearts are entwined, we are lost in rapture.
Our love may seem innocent and sweet like child’s play, rising high and dipping low, smiling adoration.
Yet painfully we part from one another, the very next day in each other’s company. There is little to see but dedication from our severed scene.
Rising high then bop, falling down and thump, it’s like a never-ending cycle where we can’t decide who is the propellant and who is the flame?
I surmise I would be the antagonist, it’s just how I am, the flame, the one to catch the stirring propellant is you, one and the same.
We can fall apart as many times as we like, But in the end, we always conjoin.
I picked the best horse, he looks to be a bright blue stallion, head thrown back as though caught in the height of action.
His mane, tufty in appearance yet made of plastic, surrounded by two females, pink and purple whose eyes aren’t bothering to view him.
My stallion isn’t distracted, he is here and he is present, in mind and body and soul I will ride him on this merry-go-round.
He will always beat the females who appear there simply to preen, not for any horse other than themselves their attentions are for themselves, it seems.
And as I win the race with my stallion in first place I know that I could have performed the task myself, with my human legs running upon the ride as a sprinter’s dream. But it’s nice to have something leading the way, and persisting in its dreams.
So, I dismount from the stallion pat his mane gently all the way down his spine I thank him for his galloping ability and wish I could make this merry-go ride mine.
Not because it caused me a thrill, not because I wish for eloquence or speed, but simply because it allowed me a break from my life, where I was in front, a forerunner, a winner, without needing to beg to be seen.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m unfairly judged, and though there are positives within me to behold, there may be negatives which make me seem like I am strange, weird, too eccentric, but truth be told: this is who I am, I proudly do not fit into any plastic mould.
I do not adhere to specific rules and such, I make certain to express myself, not holding back and following convention, there is too much to know and feel in life than to be anything other than your radical self.
I shan’t allow overs to bruise me, to gloss over my work, my expressions, because if they do not appreciate who I was, who I am, who I have become,
I will simply dance away, gaily prance off.
I could allow their whispers, their disapproval, to sink into my soul, to hurt my current moments and future tomorrows but I prefer to discard those feelings: I’d rather be strong, italic, and bold.
A home away from home, where we can dare to dream, we carry our luggage, our memories with us, a plethora of experiences.
A building in which we house our deepest darkest scenes, and lightness in all mannerisms, and some things perfectly in between.
With our eyes peering curiously, and smiles widening on our faces all the while, we can scan through our tales and winding spells in a style of carefulness or happiness which abounds.
Because when quietly recalling our memories, with friends or family, or even just little old me, we can feel joyous and buoyant and so self-assured that everything is effervescent in all their scenes.
We can relive, we can feel, we can dance inside, abound in delight all day, because these memories we have catalogued and stored in our house of homes are where we enlist our hearts as our emphatic and empathic zones always.
The sun beams down upon me: he is happy with me today. Sometimes he is disappointed, other times he may be sorely dismayed.
But I can tell from his loving warmth which spreads upon my complexion that today he is pleased with me, and the steps I am undertaking in my life to cause positive action.
I am able to draw upon experiences which, though once painful and caused such internal suffering, can now be turned into something positive, as though to say,
“Look where I came from, and where I have been,”
then the comparison of what is fruitful and kind, and what I have become, why, I’ve become myself again: from previous terrors there is no need to run and hide.
The illness, the illnesses, the secondary causes, the uncontrollable sense of living, it was in no way assured.
I lived flighty, in soaring delusional heights, I didn’t know what I was doing, only wished for worlds to explore and as I crashed and burned many a-time, faux pas and mental instability a-plenty, I wonder now, how it is that I am still here, alive, writing line upon line.
But I have healed from the brokenness, the fragility, the shattered scenes, and here I am, living freely and openly breathing.
I am here, and I will take each opportunity as wholly mine, there is no need, no reasoning, to falter again, or trip down the line.
The sun twinkles in the corner of my eye, I think I see him wink. I now know for certain that he is inextricably pleased.
Georgette was a gracious house cat, with the prettiest smile in her building.
She was well known for brightening other animals’ and people’s days, but inside she was always dreaming.
She wanted to be as purposeful and powerful as a lion, with the courage and the heart and strength to face challenges with the best of all of them.
But inside she felt too meek, too nice to realise that her dreams could be a reality, not a only potential possibility.
Because, what did it really take to be this lion of which she wished to be seen as? Loyalty, courage, qualities of being powerful, personal resilience, perhaps these were already within her, not awaiting in store?
Perhaps she was already a lion inside, a strong, roaring beast who ruled her world with benevolence, sweetness and kindness, why, she was like this presently, in becoming a lion, maybe she was already there!
Georgette the house cat no longer needed to introvert and dream all day, because of her dream she’d achieved it, She was already presently there.
The loneliness is incredible, with my heart an empty vessel, who to confide in? who to reach for? When I ache inside, wishing, wishing for more.
To be understood, not unfairly judged, acknowledged, not cast aside or looked upon with a negative view. It’s as simple as realising sometimes, an understanding embrace with no words is enough.
My woven creations may be catastrophes to some, but for others perhaps they are their lingering answers.
Certain events which should not be shared, is this reality a truth? Why should I be ashamed to speak of my former agonising, my anguishing pains, or what I went through behind the scenes, behind those doors, and beneath those evil sockets?
Are my experiences too triggering, should I be silenced? Should I not dare to speak? But nonsense! I will utter my truths and even in the silences I will allow the listener to truly feel.
Because after over a decade of being what the world could only call a despicable mess, I can call myself a survivor.
Mentally speaking, I’ve reached that glorious healthy plateau, And if I want them to, I could allow deliciously proud tears to run down my cheeks, my hiccoughing sobs to carry others to my secretive room, my precious pride of place.
For the time for mourning what has been acquired or what has been lost has long passed, I am free, at least less encumbered, and I now need to be brave and not hold anyone’s hand, because I will make it, and as for this loneliness, this too, shall pass.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
You must be logged in to post a comment.