When patience run amok

Got an advert you want to share?
A great opportunity, money off
something to sell, promotions to
promote? No time to waste, slap
it here..there…everywhere,
kerching!
Boom, boom, boom, boom
same post in different rooms
On to a winner!
Bad spelling? Who cares!
Spamming.. Brings in the money
I mean the pennies
I mean… Damn I’m banned.
“This time next year we’ll
be millionaires”
Why does no one care!
I’m only trying to share!
My crap… Every bloody where,
This is so exciting…
Boom, boom, boom, boom
All from deep in my squalor room,
The moneys gonna roll in
real fucking soon…
Boom, boom, catch
Boom, catch
Catch
Damn banned again
for being a twat
and your wallet still ain’t
growing fat…
So, go, away with ya
you vermin, you rats
You spam.. We catch.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found via WordPress library

Speckle me in dandelion seeds and set me free…

She’d always known she was the Weed, the wild flower growing between the cracks in half shadows of doubt. Never had she wanted to be the rose, except perhaps its fragrance and its soft hues of summer promise. But, no, she was the daisy growing wildly between lush blades of green grass. She was the dandelion dispersing seeds of herself on the evening scent of burning wood and she was the white clover, although she’d never admit to the fourth, petal shaped leaf that she hid beneath her smile.
Yes, she was happily the weed, growing in adversity, weathering the storms and nourished on the remnants of life. Surviving between crackles of static in rigid rips of concrete and across picture perfect canvasses where the roses stood, lonely, untouched, their wilting petals decorating the floor with death, their scent dying, their pollen stolen from beneath the blush red velvet blanket of their existence.
No, she was the white petals of survival, the yellow flesh of stubbornness rooting her to a cause, she didn’t need admiration to grow
Wild flowers need no nurturing
they simply exist between the vines
of splaying ivy and fierce troops of nettles, speckles of colour weaved between the muted greens of a druid yesteryear all myths, ancient remedies and calls of luck, the wild stems of hope growing in the dark shadows of dying rose petals wilting without whispered promises of entitled worship…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

The tempted tale of grid lock

The matrix island
of communication
wires, wired, wirelessly.
Welcome to
concept central, driving
the red hues of raging
rage, a slave to the angst
suffocating the exhaust
of a poisonous hum
of toxicity revving
between thoughts
of escape drifting
away on the back roads
of petrol pleated plumes
on carbonmonoxide
dreams of serenity…

…oh those dreams
that drive the mind
numbing beat of an
alternative reality,
catastrophic candy
for the herd bred
on societies
incestual insanity.

Karen Hayward ©2018

I am the swirl,

the turn and the mix,

colours blended,

way beyond fix,

I am the screams,

the pierces of light,

I am the silence

I am the flight.

I am the flurry

instrewed upon sight

the westward sun

and the abandoned night.

I am the silence

out just for kicks

I am the swirl

the curve and the flick,

I am the swirl,

the curve

and the kick.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words

i’m a muddle…

IMG_20170413_110950

I’m a muddle of repeated songs, odd socks and wild hair.

I care too much and yet care too little, i’m as fragile as a

porcelain doll that refuses to break when thrown against the wall,

but will chip at the slightest sign of mistrust.  My hands are

a battleground of clumsiness and my skin wears proudly

the pale hue of my heritage. My eyes truly are the windows

to my soul they whisper the secrets of pain I hide

and scream of the excitement rushing in my veins.

Yeah, i’m a muddle of chaos and calm, vivid and pale

rich, enigmatic hues of a wandering soul…

 

Karen Hayward ©2018

image and words

Chaos and the end of the rainbow.

chaos

Ten balls to a dozen

and the world,

keeps a rushing,

spinning , twirling, turning

the world as we know it

is burning.

Black skies turn to day

Old mans compass has lost his way.

North is showered in glorious sun,

As winter spreads, death has come,

Rainbows end is now in sight,

pick up your sword, get ready to fight.

A portal of doom a snake of the lair,

don’t expect these

to understand fair.

The sinners

the greed

have long planted their seed.

Growing now the evolution of time,

society obsessed with

the addiction of crime.

Discriminate who? Only a few.

Earth is lost in a jungle of hate,

we are the ones, opening Satan’s gate.

He laughs and he roars,

as they knock at his door,

All of them coming,

some of them running.

They dance in the street

with the sun at their feet.

She looks on from a far

lunar tears, of falling stars,

she came so close,

she came so far.

Dolphins fly, birds swim,

cats wagging a new grown fin.

Houses thrash through thunderous skies,

But no one stops, to question why.

So many to blame,

name after name.

The blasphemers, the dreamers,

the non believers.

As trees burn to ash live dies in a flash,

Seas swell, swirling the living,

never forgiving.

Rock turns to dust,

metal to rust, affairs into lust,

this world has gone bust.

A web of beauty.

 img_20161212_091835.jpg
Weave for me a web of beauty.
With chaos delicately threaded
though strands of passion that
spill into life. Fill it with unknown
questions and curious minds that
search the horizon without fear
of ego or pride. Show me a soul
seeped in golden glittered rays
of a dusking sun, hues of love
shadowing past pains. Give to me
freckles, messy hair, mismatched
socks and a spirit that laughs.
For what is a lake without the
dragonfly, a sky without the sun,
a window without a trail of abandoned
Kiss imprints.
What is life…without life?

Karen Hayward © 2016 (image and words)

Writing prompt, chaos.

Writing prompt chaos

SS850257

This write doubles up slightly with the prompt from a few days back ‘sacrifice’…it started out as the sacrifice prompt, but clearly also fit very well with chaos. The inspiration was that often as a writer the pieces that come easiest are on the back of a sacrifice, which got me thinking what would I lose if I switched off this aspect of my personality, what sacrifices would I be making to become a non writer.

There’s a flip switch inside my head, I can turn it on or turn it off. I can survive either way. I can decide any time that I want. All I have to do is flip, that, switch. I can choose sleep I can choose to while away my hours glued to the television screen as my brain cells become numb to the outside world. I can choose to not see. I can close down the part of my mind that see’s a technicolor strobe of enlightening hues in the final glimpse of a setting sun, I don’t have to see this. I can choose to not feel, a thing. I can wrap myself in metaphorical bubble wrap and block out the sensations of the world against my skin. I can stop tasting the world on the tip of my tongue as it tantalizes my taste buds, I can do bland, I like bland. I can stop listening, I don’t have to internalize the words, the thoughts, I can revert them back to a black font on a white background, they can once again be nothing. I can create a dam inside my mind and fill it with the excessively flowing vocabulary. They can spend their remaining days swimming in the lake of forgotten wishes and unknown thoughts. They’ll be safe there. I can drag along my old pink blankie and peach frilled pillow, close the iron gate and just flip that switch.I don’t have to live outside the cage, my wings are tired from the constant fluttering to reach the opening and my feet hurt from the constant tugging me back. I don’t need to fly, the sky is so very brightly coloured and the sun so very warm I am sure I would only dawdle through the skies if I could. I don’t have to be this way. I can self implode the chaos that swims through my veins and creates sparkles of love in every step I take, I can switch it back, revert it alongside the font, I can drain the saturation, become monochrome I can become the melancholy of rainy afternoons as heavens tears slide down glass window panes. I don’t have to be this way, I can flip that switch. I can embrace the multi layer grading of grey on grey whilst my soul shrivels resting in the eternal solitude of an iron cage. I can turn off the world, see nothing, feel nothing, be nothing. Write nothing. I just have to flip that switch.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)