Labelled lubricant of liberation

The smoldering kiss of suppressed
thought, silent flames, burning
memories, (inse) ‘curities fueling
the empty hours that were once
seconds. The vile shadow of intent
for all thoughts have a root, all
words have cause and I feel for the
distant tug of space beyond
prostitution of the flesh. But alas,
some pages we rewrite in frenzied
passion and label it liberation,
erasing our markings with the
over chewed end of a HB pencil
till pages are torn and the canvas
becomes a hue of melancholy grey.

Karen Hayward ©2017

I am a writer, master of deceit.

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I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a child of fantasy and I weave deceit through silken ties of beauty to create for you a truth, a version of truth, a lie, a lie that spins from my tongue covered in the purest honey nectar. Take my hand let me create for us a utopia of love submerged beneath oceans of emerald green sprinkled with the dust of a thousand purest diamonds. Ooh how we will dance in the cool ebbing tide of love beneath the golden rays of an eternal sun, flames flickering as we frolic. I am a writer, a master of deception, let me weave for you a beauty that transcends the oceans of time as stars illuminate our skies and darkness creeps across our naked skin caressing the contours of our souls as they entwine beneath the pearlescent glow of a loving moon. I am an artist, I am a writer, I am trained in the art of observation, I am master of the tails I spin, I am the master of deceit. I am the devil in the guise of an angel my words are the armored wall that shrouds me so I may craft in peace perfect fantasies to appease. I am a writer, I am an artist, I am the pure light you believe exists, innocence the essence of my soul the gentle whisper that tickles across a spring breeze as dawn wakes and night leaves. Piercing eyes of distraction, soft lips of need, porcelain skin of vulnerability from upon my cloud of fantasy, I, see, all. I watch and learn, I listen and read I follow the paths of intentions hidden behind words, mismatch them. I can paint any picture of poetic perfection, I can map human behaviour, read the nuances understand the subtle hints and with perfect understanding I hear the things not uttered.  And I learn, and I learn. I am an artist, I am a writer I am a master of deceit.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)

Promise me nothing.

Promise me nothing and let no word uttered from those deep red lips thereafter be a sinful injustice to the destination of our journey. Promise me nothing and never will you be capable of tearing slits through my heart or leaving my soul abandoned beneath storming skies. Promise me nothing, not even a kiss or a hint of your love, promise nothing and let it be stained with your lust fuelled seman, seal it with the saliva of a thousand kisses from your lips to another and another. Just promise me nothing, let that be the only promise you make.

Karen Hayward ©2016

A karmic lesson in truth.

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Poem is based on over hearing an entire conversation in detail, in public.

Dear…your name is not important, not now,
For a brief moment your choices created a void inside my mind that threatened to drag me in and devour me whole.
The lies you wore rolled up and stuffed beneath your heartless sleeve created a vortex of self doubt deep within my heart. The lies you whispered, the fractured fantasies you created. Romanticised in a one sided fantasy, i’d say the dreams you created, but they were an Italian masquerade ball of the past, characters playing an elaborate role flaunting stories pieced together with the guts of a thousand gnats.

Your reflection was a knight in shining armour your mirror an egotistical looped image of self importance, and for every second your heart beat you could not comprehend that I never desired to be saved. I never required you. Never have I met a soul so scared of intimacy, for every step forward you danced back to the beat of an inaudible song that played out across a tannoy in your world of fairytales and waiting wolves. You created an entangled web of manipulation, curious observations filled with empty holes and torn out patches. Your heart a fluttering mess of curdled blood when reality and fantasy played out indifferently and I had the honour of front row seats.

Dear….your name never really mattered, you were always a karmic lesson in truth.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Words and image)

The fucked up tales of fairys.

Fuck the world in all its glory,
This ain’t no fairy tale story.
There’s no happy end,
Or love to send.
It’s a fantasy built upon bullshit words,
Sung in the tree tops by fucked up birds.
The light is for the weak,
The dark is what I seek,
Truth in the actions
Of the fucked up reactions.
This ain’t no fucking fairy tale,
Life isn’t pass or fail.
Show me a truth, i’ll show you a lie,
Everyone does it, no matter how hard they try.
A fantasy of words created in awe,
Like it’s some kinda fucked up law.