It might be… Pms

It might be,
pre menstrual cramp,
a drummer boy,
blade in hand
Perforating holes through
scars of ovaries.
Or it could be the tiredness
that 5am brings in the silence of
it might be nothing,
or a little in between.
It is perhaps a rise
in hormones a dip in
pain levels and the swirling
tug of sore muscles.
It could be a lack of chocolate
A need for food, a rumbling
Or storage heaters,
an insomniacs personal
hell, not enough
A lack of stars
A lack of snow
A lack of moon…
the essence of hera, fear
unknown or the
endless realm of thoughts…

Everything so silent
Everything so distant
Everything so dark
Everything so…

Karen Hayward ©2017

Souls of the dead.

Crimson blood spilling from

my hands as I tear away the

strings to the heart that

blacken in the wake of fear.

Tip tapping, drops hitting the floor.

Wasted life force congealing, drying,

cracking as the raven pecks and

pecks at the souls of the dead.


Karen Hayward ©2016

Blood laced razor blades.

The true facts about menstruation:

PMS….pre fuck you! The weeks running up to the event. Your body realising there were no winners in the sperm race decide to celebrate with an influx of hormones. 

Then boom out of nowhere the drummer boy pulls out his razor blades and plays a melody of death upon your ovaries….and the world just keeps on fucking turning as my insides are fucking burning…

And then there’s the blood, a murder scene of mass proportion…I should probably stop writing now if I want anyone to read my stuff again 🙂

Karen Hayward ©2016

Festering soul in the scorching heat.



Tear away shreds of my sanity,

discard of them in the wasteland of opportunity.

Scavengers rummaging for the lost.

The hopeless wandering the night,

hapless souls void of light.

Darkness swarming at their ankles,

skinless fingers grabbing,

pulling them down

into the flaming pits.

Tear apart my spirit and spit it

out upon the dirt road of redemption

where it can fester in the warmth

of my guts. Congealed blood gluing

together the remains of any super hero

style sanity. Leave it to bubble, half boiling

beneath the summer rays as that

flaming ball scorches the last remains

of my soul.


Karen Hayward ©2016 (words)

Image is not mine it can be found on pinterest 🙂





If for a single moment

I thought it could change anything,

I would rip apart your soul and watch




blood pooled onto the tiled floor.

I would tear open your mind

with a small blade

my fingers slipping

as they turned scarlet red,

as I dissect

to find the truth

inside your broken head.

But then of course,

you would be


Menstruation, a fucking curse.

Ha ha I just found this in draft on my phone, clearly, I was not having a good day when I wrote it. :-).

If you don’t do, gross, then i highly recommend you hit the back button, now. This is a poem about menstruation, yep. :-). It’s a subject that is not written about often enough, not in its true form.

I hate you, i actually fucking hate you,
a myth created centuries ago,
To smooth the transition,
Into the crimson flow.
It ain’t a fucking blessing,
Or mother nature caressing,
You, are, a, fucking curse,
You are, fucking, worse.

A gift straight from Eve,
Can you believe?
Here my dear child,
Go fucking wild.

The crimson flows
Like nobody knows,
A torrent of clot filled blood,
ripping through you,
Filthy like mud,
Too dirty to screw.
As you soak right through.

Tauntingly painful as you prickle,
The scar,
Pushing me out into the dark.
Taunting reminder,
Of the loss not the gain,
Of the darkness and evil that sometimes reign.
It’s not enough to cause me pain,
Or wash my iron stores down the drain,
You constantly remind,
The pain i did find,
The tears that once fell,
The story i don’t tell.

Crimson storm of passion.

A deep echoing silence
Surrounds her,
As a stormy breeze warns her.
Soft fingers tracing her skin,
Calm her beating heart.
As he whispers in her ear,
The storm is about to start.

Her eyes glisten with fear,
As she feels the lightening, near.
His hand moves slowly, beneath the soft red lace of her bra,
He cups her breast, and
Kisses her red flushed lips.

The storm becomes a distant sound,
As he strokes her nipple, round and round,
Passion replaces fear,
And she whispers in his ear,
The softness of his skin,
When she holds him near.

Warm rain spilling across her,
The storm is just a blur.
Soft moss beneath her naked skin,
As his fingers glide,
An awakening ting,
with no where to hide.

Rain tip tapping, no longer light,
As she screams in pleasure deep into the lonely night.
His hands holding tight,
As he slips it in,
Just right.

Her pleasure is heard by the creatures of the night,
Eyes watching them,
As they leave behind the light.
His teeth sink in,
Drawing on her life,
He sips upon the crimson,
As the lightening strikes.

Blood spiled and filled with lust,
The urgency is now a must,
As thunderous clouds call from above,
He pins her gently to the moss.
Eyes aware, so full of care,
A perfect fantasy for them to share.

Blood related rant!

Blood tests, you either love them or hate them, right? nah, didn’t think so, you see people make these assumptions that if you fall into the hate group it’s gotta be because you’re needle phobic, and out come all the little, perfectly kind (but wasted on me) lines about how it’ll only be a little prick…No, no seriously just no. You ever seen a grown girl cry? scream? Ha ha reckon i’ve even sobbed on ocassion. It is not just a little prick, it is a stab, a forceful stab that cuts deeper than any other pain i have ever known. But it only hurts for a second….that’s another favourite line, again no. As a girl, i’ve endured a handful of blood tests over my time and i’ve learned a few things, never, ever let an inexperienced nurse or doctor anywhere near my veins. They simply have no idea…arm strapped, they look, turn my arm, look some more, suck in some air, tap, tap somemore, relax your arm, tense your arm and finally without even a single idea of where abouts that lovely elusive purple line of mine is they stab, hard. Rarely do they get the vein, so they try again, and again, then we get to swap arms, needles too sometimes, nothing like a butterfly needle to make you feel like a grown up! And then the killer line, that makes me want to shout and scream, oh you don’t like needles? Why don’t they ever see that my issue isn’t with the needle, christ i sit and watch, i watch as they prepare the needle i watch as they pierce my skin, and when they finally get the vein i watch as my delicious crimson red blood fills the tube…ok so i actually feel a little sad when my blood goes into the tube, that is me, my blood after all :-). 
Oh and the stinging, no one mentions the stinging as they suck away your blood, a deep burning sting. So yeah i geuss i’m in the hate group, jus not for the reasons every one thinks, i’ll give myself a week, maybe two too mentally prepare for the torture that is needle pain, and who knows perhaps in that very small amount of time, someone, somewhere will discover a pain free way of extracting blood.