Prose Poetry: Slipping Through The Cracks – 16/10/19

We can, at times, choose to fall into the cracks, to allow ourselves to become lost, forgotten in our life paths. There is a certain way of thinking, defeatist in itself, that will disallow us to keep churning along. Our former dream-chasing no longer ongoing, the once-joyous ribbons ceasing their unwinding, ceremonious unfurling. Because if we permit ourselves to trip and stumble at each possible failure, feeling like we cannot rebuild ourselves upwards from the pains and sorrows from which we suffer, we can forcibly lock ourselves into a dark, dampened place where nothing positive will live. No self-love, no personal acceptance, no sense of real responsibility. No resonating sense of control to be delivered. Where we can wail and drown in our style that is completely differing from the method of being brightened and proceeding through failures triumphantly and swimmingly. If we can’t teach ourselves to rise from the dirt, from the mud when we’re thrown down, beaten in certain circumstances, how can we expect others to look to us for comfort and guidance?

Realise that your life is not only yours alone. Many of you have others looking toward you, as a prime example. They see what you do, and do what they see, not do as they are told, because demonstration is key. And how these others will praise you, sometimes silently, their eyes speaking of pride that you have once again lifted yourself from a moment of great sufferance or strife, that you have carried on regardless of the shame or embarrassment you may have felt at falling.

Love yourself, even when you feel your life spreading, unfairly unfolding. Terrible things happen to people: disasters, illness, loss, and we can’t help some of these — they are but truth, occurrence, circumstance, or destiny, and we need to accept that the way we deal with negative moments shows a certain strength of character. Your uprising from the cracks is the key. Allow yourself not to fall in the gaps, but to leap forth, rising like the superhero you truly are, and fly through your life with eloquence and style, knowing that you have done exactly as you have willed, performed what you are capable of and in the manner in which you’d hoped.

There’s nothing wrong with occasionally stumbling, but healing, recovering or carrying on steadfast and courageously; why, these are methods which make life truly worth living.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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Prose Poetry: The Flowing River Meeting Place – 14/10/19

There was a river flowing from my heart at the point where we first met. Two streaming rushes converging into other, as we assessed and smiled and interacted with one another. I drew pictures on the back of your hand, little symbols here and there, you allowed me to be cutesy and my childish myself, and I so love that about you, that of my personality, you were immediately made aware and you didn’t back away, you didn’t seem to care.

Your water brings me sustenance and lifts the dehydrating fog; disallows my heart from becoming parched and dry, and nestles me into your hydrating, plumping love. At this rushing river where our hearts were made known of each other’s presence and traits, are where we meet daily, our emotions intertwining together, becoming vines wrapped alongside and with each other. Because that is how we are, our fates are now twisted, into tightly coiled shapes, and the thorns? Why, they’ve completely gone missing.

Because there is no longer any room for personal barbed pain or undying senses of loneliness to be noticed, harped upon, and saved. Because together we are stronger, in charming and less charming circumstances we will remain with great ardour, and in saying this I will strongly ascertain that our love for one another will remain as long as our forevers.  

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.   


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Poetry and Prose: The Merman

I sail the seas, high and low, searching for someone to come save me. To hold me tightly, embrace me, and breathe in my scent. To accept me with my flaws as well as for what they might view as perfection sent their way. I ride the seas and find many sea creatures, in many shapes, forms and sizes. Some are kind, heavenly, nice, others, well, not so subtle in their devices. The crested waves they slam onto shore, throwing myself and the others with now-less strange faces onto the rocky peaks making us scream for no more, and it is here I realise I should be accustomed to weathering these waves by myself. It is time to assume there is no need for me to be saved.

Now mermaids and mermen come out from beneath the deep, their glittering, glistening scales, tails and fins are so delightful for me, that I cannot speak. They guide me into the open shores, build a protection, a fort, with their arms and hands then once having assisted me, their presence is suddenly naught.

The seas now calm, the water’s surface pristine and now the colour of a deep blue lagoon, and I wonder to myself have I imagined those former moments out of my reality? Have I imagined the sea creatures and merpeople with an imagination too excitable and prematurely ready? But thinking about it, I once again experience that forlorn feeling, that yearning, of needing another in my life, to whom I can make an offering, a promise to be the one in their life that they can always trust, love and rely upon.

Then out in the corner of my eye, I spot an enormous spouting, a large body of water fountaining in the distance, and I take this as a kind of heralding, that something or someone important might possibly be arriving. It just seems so out of place, for I am used to the waves crashing around, not reaching straight up and down; I know I must remain to witness the arrival of the being worthy of wearing a certain crown. Because I have that feeling, that this is a sea creature whom I will be most blessed to be meeting. A creature whom I will hopefully have the pleasure of calling my own.

I lie in wait, for the moment to arrive. I lie in wait and the nervous anticipation and the trembling takes over outside of me and inside. I lie in wait, and then I meet You, my merman of the deep. The one who could view me as I harness my energy, and not be intimidated when I show all facets of me. The anger, the joyous, the contemplative, my sadness, my irritatingly frustrating habit of being focused on details, details, details. But you are the one who can and will promise to cherish my love, and love me in return, wholly, with your precious heart. My sea creature of the deep, my merman of the sea, understand that you are here to play beside me, to walk through life with openness, laughter and brightness, and to shine, shine, shine, all day and every night together, so freely.  

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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Poetry and Prose: Queen and King – 11/10/19

There was that special moment, when you first reached for and clasped my hand. Do you remember, darling, as we sat outside on my back porch, in those “King and Queen” deck chairs? You hesitantly, tentatively asked me if this was okay, I smiled and beamed inwardly to myself – of course it was fine! I wished that you could stay.

Worried that others would return to find you here, an unknown, holding onto my hand, I calmed myself, told myself it would be alright, that we still had some precious time. And side by side we sat, smiling to ourselves, the silence comfortable, not awkward at all, with the overwhelming feeling that you might be the right one for me, after all.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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Poetry and Prose: Routines – 10/10/19

We have little routines. You have little routines. Routines as far as the eyes can see routines. Some are tiny, insey little habits, others are irritating to oneself, grating on our sense of selves if we do not perform them. Some may say a certain amount of these ingrained habits are obsessions, our preferential predilections. That if we don’t follow through with what our minds and bodies intend, we will feel catastrophic inside, a lack of feeling and control to be had. But why do we need to do these tasks? It’s not as though skipping them here and there will hurt ourselves, make of us pariahs, make us social outcasts. In fact, these routines, these niggling habits, are simply just there to control our minds, in a manner which calms them, a substitute we’d better hurriedly find.

Because being calmed by performing strange habits can deter one from living in the commonplace world, a sanity to find within it. There is no point living in a land of delusions and grand thoughts, when no one essentially understands what you’re going on about. Those movements, those thoughts, those inherent tics, those ordered movements, verbal spouting, your jagged sense of speech. The over-cleaning of your environment, the rapid words and speech, control yourself – forgive the pun – allow the moments to be.

Your little routines may do some good, but others, why, others in themselves are better off out of our mental neighbourhood. Because if overt sense of control calms us, what does that say about our spiritual and mental health, when we cannot allow ourselves to be free, even for a moment, just a special and quiet sense of self? There is positivity in the posterity of all when it comes to becoming calmer and relaxed, to loosening up our minds and souls, at realising that these habits do not do us justice at all.  In fact, they merely impinge and take away from our sense of self, by their wanting desire to control us and our behaviour, wherever we might go.

Loosen the noose, and open the hatch, come down from that attic in which you were hiding yourselves in, and cast aside the antiquities of errant thoughts at that. Be pure, be wise, be true, and live for yourselves, be yourselves, don’t allow strange behaviours to continue to control you.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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Poetry and Prose: The Disguises – 10/10/19

What can I say? I’m a chameleon — I can shape shift at will. With the right applicators, the right clothing, the right hair colour, I can alter my appearance and seemingly become someone else, a new someone. My ability to change is inherent, a desire to change who I am, to become something more, but why can’t I be completely content with who I am?

There is no need to continually change anymore. I am accepted for who I am and how I appear, and for those who decide to speak otherwise, I’ll dismiss their words without a care. For, I have gone through so much internal suffering and physical upheaval, my alterations took a great toll on my tired body and heavy mind.

A chameleon may be desirable to those who prefer their others as showy and changeable, but I am now an almost-contented being; only a few complaints have I, and I can work on altering these, quietly, without the flash of colours in the brimming sky in others’ perceptive eyes, their flashing, thoughtful eyes.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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Poetry and Prose: Fractured – 09/10/19

Just because you’re fractured does not mean you’re falling apart. The pieces cracked, aged and suffering may in actual fact be a sign that you are needing to rearrange your heart, your mind, to replace into your hollows your startled, staring eyes. It doesn’t hurt to begin. There is no better moment than now to start.

Pick the pieces up from the floor, scattered there, left to right, abstract in motion, lying there, uncaring, when in reality they are waiting for you to pick them, to hear their whispers so softly spoken. Begging you to place them back into the right spots, to recomplete the image that is softening and full of love, yet vibrant and striking also, because you, you are the truest individual. You broke at a time when your name was being called the most. The pressure smashed you into tiny pieces on the floor, but you are still here, grappling, grasping at the pieces, while you are desperately on your knees. Don’t forget that completion and contentment can come from a harrowing experience, murmuring velveteen words at your ears as you cajole the irresponsible pieces back into place.

Fractured you might feel, fractured you may even be, but knowing that breakage is commonplace is the first step in retracing where each fragment should have been; each crack to shoulder or interlace one another until you once more regain your sense of self, and become that quiet but proud king or queen.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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Poetry and Prose: The Self: Concern, Love and Care – 08/09/19

When was the last time you focused on yourself? I mean truly, deeply, contemplatively connected with yourself? Have you dwelled upon what you deserve, about your likes and dislikes, your aspirations and hopes? About how you allow yourself to link with others, of how you graciously love, how you treat your close others? How do you feel when that stranger on the street gives you a quick smile, and a cheery “Good morning”? Does your mood and spirit lift and spring, at being worthy of being acknowledged? What does your Self say to the mornings where you don’t want to roll out of bed? Your aching head screams to stay in, please, connect with yourself instead.

There is a timely connection between us, our soul and spirit, and we need to accept that holistically treating ourselves with gentleness and care has ultimate worth and merit. Because if we cannot look after ourselves, cherish our beautiful selves, who will look after us better? But sometimes there are times where we come undone, where we cannot look after ourselves, no matter how hard we try. Even lifting our heavy, dreary eyelids becomes too much of an action, and this is when we cry out for another human connection. Someone who is there to now look after us, with duty of care and concern, and a loving level of personal trust.

We know these people in the world, they mean more to us than ever could be spoken of or expelled, and quietly they go about their duties as though there is nothing to them. Because that is how they are, our loved ones, they tidy the mess that everyday life or inherent suffering has brought to us. Cataclysmic whirls and hurricanes blustering and blowing in the minds of ourselves when we are sadly, not so complete. But the trying times will pass by, we will rise higher and higher until we avoid that dangling fall into the abyss, and with a joyous ringing of trumpets, we have arrived home.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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Poetry and Prose: Shedding Her Print – 07/10/19

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.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.  


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Poetry and Prose: Symphonies of Kindness – 06/10/19

Feel those interlacing melodies, the interwoven harmonies rise and fall, like a spectacular swarm of hungry, eager bees, starved from Autumn and Winter, waiting for the buds of Spring to appease them all. These melodic bees enter the symphony as they desire, lifting and lilting with their buzzes strictly moving from flower to flower. The pollen dirties their legs, but, they do not mind, they are not self-conscious, neither are they abashed, because they love the dirty work as much as any other insect, except these can rise far higher than any other with a set task at hand.

And like these precious hungry bees, I speak to you, begging for nourishment. For my meal of sustenance, and for my deep-seeded hunger to be fulfilled and cause a whirlwind of taste-bud excitement and delight. Others would not feed me their love, they starved me, in fact, they took from my heartfelt feelings and left me broken and bruised, a gaping hole in my stomach and soul, from associating with people who didn’t deserve the true Me that I was offering them. Had I offered my heart to you? Did you laugh as I despaired at losing the presence of you?

But now I can hear that buzzing, accompanying a melodious male voice, speaking of acceptance, duality, and kindness, symphonies of smiling adoration and knowingness. You have taken me into your life, made music out of the lullabies I sung to thee, and with your arm around me, we sing together now, accompanied by our symphony of precious bees. Because their pollen will fertilise the flowers, make them bloom, blossom, grow, for many hours, and with their colourful additions into the scene, you and I can travel hand in hand to places we’ve never thought to have been.

Our armour has been displaced upon the ground; unwanted, unnecessary, and now unknown. Because, in you, my love has been found.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.


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