Just ranting…



I’m an introvert and in my perfect world there would be no need for communication. We would instead converse directly, telepathically, there would be no need for eye contact, or finding the right words, I wouldn’t need to muddle through my thoughts and translate my poetic musings into dialogue and fuck adjacency pairing (conversational turn taking), fuck, fuck adjacency pairing. And don’t touch me, please, I can see you need to hug a random stranger and that’s your business, I will not judge, but please, don’t make me that person. Don’t think at any point it is okay to get up in my space and let your skin come even close to mine, it’s not okay…i’m not broken, don’t look at me with those displeasing eyes, i’m sorry that you think me the rude one when I recoil from your touch or when suddenly I stop talking and fucking blush. Listen and I will speak but don’t expect to find me talking in the crowds, instead I like to watch hidden by my shroud. Lead into privacy where my voice alone can rise. Fuck, I am a walking contradiction. There are millions, billions perhaps of nerve endings sitting beneath the skin waiting to be triggered, waiting to shoot out mini fucking canons every single time they are stroked gently as though you were petting a cat, i’m not a fucking cat, do not pet me. Get out of my personal space, my muscles are tight from resisting the urge to go bat shit crazy…it’s like tickling my fucking nerve endings then walking away, now the fuckers are awake they need to feel, they need the deep penetration of touch, fuck, fuck, fuck. I sometimes think I truly despise people, I mean that in a nice way :). It’s times like this when I am very aware of my contradictions, I hate being touched, I hate being hugged and fuck me I hate when people think it’s okay to touch without permission. I love touch when it’s done right, I love deep touch that I can truly feel, not gentle tiny fucking annoying strokes. I hate having to talk with people, I like living inside my little bubble, I like being alone, I like solitude…I love talking with the right people, I love talking to those that know my silence means nothing more than an invitation for them to crawl on up inside my mind. I hate small talk I like real talk. I hate talking about how I feel I fucking love talking about how I feel! I hate talking about my thoughts and feelings and yet fucking hell they spill onto the page as though my life depended upon it. I’m a worthy walking contradiction, a beautifully quirky contradiction…just don’t touch me or hug me or fucking stroke me like a cat, don’t assume I’m an extrovert because of my self confidence, loving myself is easy :). I know i’m kinda hard, but the clues are clearly there just know that if I say it, it means I truly care.


Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)


I submit.


maygarden 015

Reach into the depths of my soul and feel at the essence.

Give me truths I can blindly trust not words that can

be manipulated to tell a tale of beauty. Show me

again and again that I am your Queen and you

worship the air I breathe not the ground I walk. See

the beauty in me that lays beneath the surface and

make me no promises, for promises are the essence

of evil. Whisper to me the darkest truths in your

soul and let me whisper back, then look me in the

eye and tell me you are mine and I will submit to you,

entrusting you with everything I am and everything

I can be, entrusting you, to keep my soul free.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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Give me…


Strip away my outer layers,

lay me bare upon the bed

and make love to me.

But first…

give me make up sex,

break up sex,

morning sex and middle of the night sex.

Give me needy sex and lazy sex

and foreplay will do tonight sex.

Give me selfish sex,

selfless sex.

Give me on the stairs, the table, the sofa

and the living room floor sex.

Give me slow sex.

Fast sex.

Give me sex fueled by passion




Give me lights off sex,

lights on sex,

middle of the day sex.

When you have stripped me bare

and I am left with only my


then make love to me.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Butterfly wings.


My butterfly stands waiting at the window for her fluttering friend to arrive. Patience has kept her there for 90 minutes and the time has still not come, so still she waits as she teeters on the edge of forever. Shoes on, hair self brushed and bag packed with the teddy. The pink teddy that is almost nine, just like her. The sun is falling across her mousy blonde hair, streaks are appearing, she says, mum, take the colour of your hair so I can see the real colour, go look in a mirror I tell her. She giggles and shows me her matching freckle by the base her thumb, just like mine. How many minutes, she asks, a while I reply knowing no answer will appease her as time has currently stopped in her world. I sit back and watch her, her eyes are sparkling and I see the tiny fluttering of her wings…my phone beeps. ‘They’re on their way sweety’. I swear I just saw her soul soar into the sky and do somersaults. 

Even when…


Even in the battlegrounds of the devil’s soldiers,
beneath the iron shackles of your indiscretions
and purpose led assistance.
Even when hope is lost and the sun fails to rise
and darkness holds me hostage.
Especially on the days you think I’m broke,
with grey eyes that refuse to look up
as my voice is just a whisper on the breeze
and you’re not even sure if I spoke.
And even as I question my future abilities to love and be loved,
when I reflect on the damage,
and I question my sanity.
And even when you glance at me with eyes that cannot see.
Even when my shoulders can no longer take the weight
and my heart has nothing left to break.
Even then,
when reality ties a noose around my neck
and binds me to the dirt…
no matter much the hurt.

I don’t know how to
not get back up again. I don’t know how to stay down, or how to spend the day with a frown. I don’t know how to not defend myself…or protect myself. I don’t know how to whisper when I need to shout. I don’t know how to not love myself or how to not see beauty in my soul, I don’t know how to be like you and let the world crush my spirit and leave me empty. I don’t know how to not get back up.

Karen Hayward ©2016

To see a multitude of hues.

If time travel were possible I could cruise the depths of the universe at your side. We would search the endless skies for the answers to our questions and the knowledge to our wisdom. We could watch it all begin from row seats, my excitement spilling into time, a static echo heard as a whisper whilst we sleep back in our own beds in our own world. We could watch the earth as she takes her final breaths as she dies before our glistening eyes. You could hold me as at last I feel it safe to cry. We could watch the sun setting over and over and experience the multitude of magnificent hues. We could watch the aurora, like a child I could scream in delight at the spectacular lights. We could sit beneath a full moon and watch as she spills moon dust across a glorious lagoon. We could meet Shakespeare and Dickens and any one you like, we could travel in the darkness or travel in the light. We could watch as we are born, I could discover was mine night or was it morn. I could whisper to my younger self as the fox knocks down the bin, that even in the darkness it is morning and I’m sorry but this really isn’t a dream. We could travel all the shores and see the many ocean tides and for a single moment in time, we could touch. A single touch that stops the ticking clock, the gentle graze lingering on my skin until my dying breath. An imprint on my soul that travels with me where ever I might go.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Silken ties.

Take away my sight

with red silken ties

and plunge me

into darkness.

Peel away the layers,


let me sense your eyes,


Take me as I am,

take me as you please,

get me on the floor

on my hands and knees.

Tell me what to do,

tell me how to please.

Tell me how I taste,

Tell me how I feel,

tell me what you see,

let nothing go to waste.


Karen Hayward ©2016

Satan’s Pleasures.

This is another of my personal faves! ♥


Your God says I am damned to hell.
It happened the moment my halo fell.
Down on my knees with cum on my face
sinfully tempted by the devils taste.
Your God says passion is sin,
as I lay on my bed and ask if it’s in.
With fingers that touch and awaken the soul,
such a shame these are things that you’ll never know.
Your God says the body is shame.
I wonder does God watch as I touch where you came,
as he damns all of those that blaspheme his name,
a portal for the devil to lift God into fame.
Your God says don’t give into lust,
but the pleasures it brings is just such a rush,
I’m down on my knees, take it I must,
’tis the pleasures of life that I really do trust.

©Karen Hayward 2015.

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Games of Old.

Am sorting my erotic poetry into collections over on g+ and came across this one, this is one of my personal faves! ♥


I want to play cards. Give me cards.

Old cards with worn out edges and the remnants

of forgotten nights and remembered mornings.

I want to play Black Jack, rummy,

and snap. Yes snap.

Fuck snap.

We’ll play strip snap.

I want to swallow down burning

hits of red aftershock as I shimmy

another Ace from sight.

Play me.

Lay out your cards and

show me your heart(s).

Let the night forget us in shadows

of lust, let the dawning sun be our light.

Wrap me in white cotton sheets, lead me as

cards fall from the air and onto the bed.

Lay me among Kings and Queens.

Spoil me.

Kiss me, lips locked together

as you pull memories from my hair. Push aside

my legs and as the morning sun falls upon us,

fall into me.

One deep thrust.

A nights worth of flirting, a lifetime of desire,

the dark moments in the shadows and

the whispered touches that…

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With fingers that roam across

the skin and tongues that devour,

with hands that explore the

curves and lips that taste.

With eyes that give and words that take,

for a single moment of eruption

make me the only inhabitant

of our corruption. As we search the

endless skies for connection, hindered by

reflection, let me lead you into

temptation. Let me be the darkness

you seek, be my darkness.

Become my need

as it spills as I will be


Karen Hayward ©2016

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