A trail of massacre in my wake.

redhairwings

Menstruating blood seeps through the

cracks of my hormones plunging me into the depths

of normality, to be female, so easily led by useless

emotions that spill across cheeks.

A jolt into reality to see what you see,

instead you show me the tainted

pages that already haunt my thoughts.

Aneath the crimson onslaught

I tear your soul from

words fought,

I leave a trail of massacre in my wake.

I leave a trail of massacre in my wake.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Words and image.

Lost unto you.

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There are moments, senses lost I become

a flurry of chaotic need,  a yearning forms within

my core. Desire that transcends the simplicity

of imagination like winters mist circling

my limbs I feel there your fingers.

Tender kisses upon skin, trailing my breastbone

your breath a whisper calling unto desire

lost within your tantalizing thoughts and

teasing truths my senses become a blur

of eruptive forces, lust perches upon my lips,

passion circles my tongue, need tingles within

and I am lost, to you, lost unto you.

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

Too far gone to care.

image

I used to sit inside that cage,
With iron bars made of rage. Let no one in let no one see,
My biggest fear was being free.
I used to hate to think and feel,
told myself I was keeping it real.
A moat, a dam, concrete walls,
So easy to keep up these fucked up rules.
Yet still,
that haunting pain seeped through the cracks,
Seeking me out on the darkened tracks.
Spectres never to be trusted,
like the Tinman my heart rusted.
Rooted to the spot drowning in rain,
Still I told myself, this kept me sane.
Sane. Sane like the broken clones of society. The stereotypical byproduct of reality.
The path of the sane has more pain than insanity.

I used to sit inside that cage,
with iron bars made of rage.
Feared that temptation to ever engage,
Fearing always the stories final page.
Now I’m the writer, and that page is mine,
Tis true I never know what I will find,
but no longer do I fear the appearance of my kind
For I tired of the days when I let society define.
I might not know the way,
but I’ll no longer fear what I say.
I might not see an end,
but I’ll no longer be pretend.
Along this path I’ll meet them all,
people sent to make me fall,
and others, hands out stretched,
showing me,
that I am worthy,
to stand fucking tall.
I used to sit inside that cage,
fearing all I felt, the love, the rage.
But now I choose to be the page.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

If people knew what they leak.

If people could see what they leak,
the way their emotions flow through
the atmosphere. The tears they
refuse to cry.
The lies.
The pain they lock away for
a darker day.
It all leaks.
It skips across the breath of some,
dances through the mind of others.
Seeps into me.
If people could hear what their eyes say,
what the pause between their words tells me.
If people knew what they leak.
The excitement that flutters in my stomach with an unknown cause,
The heart that breaks over and over,
pain caught in my throat.
The fear, oh the fear that fills our souls that seeps from the psych invisible to
the naked eye.
If people knew what they leak.
They’d understand why I seek solitude,
why my mind is so very open
to the possibilities.
If people knew what they leak they would know why it is I am open and closed in a single heart beat.

Karen Hayward © 2016.

The cerebral effect.

A life devoid of emotions.
Let the sin of skin speak the truths and
devour our souls as passion slips
through onto the page. Fill the
emptiness with desire. Desire.
Desire that is inspired by an emotional
attraction. Fuse the temporary emotions
that can be created for purpose. Purpose,
the emotional state of being. Without being there
is no purpose. Emptiness that devours the soul
even death would be a welcomed benefactor, there
is no fate worse than this, the vastness of an
abyss. Frozen in time as an old homemade VHS tape
flicks though the candid camera. Before pictures.
Black and white tinged in belief, spoiled now
with a rainbows smear as even the leprechaun
sheds a tear for the broken. To venture, leave
behind past scars and become devoted to the
moment without concern for the future.
Remove my domino, let the cloak fall to
my feet and bare myself with the abandonment
of an untouched spirit and let passion be the
sparkle in my dying eyes. A life devoid of
emotion, is no life at all, it is the black abyss
of faithful regret, the cerebral effect of monotone
existence. It buries my raw in the bloodied
mud of mistrust and flows through my veins
poisoning my essence. It is the slow death
that creeps though your days as the angel
hides in the shadows, watching and waiting
to collect your part lived soul. But as he reaches
down to pick you out from the crowd, the
hollow shell cracks, the soul atomized. Forgotten
dust as the breeze carries the delicate petals
on new adventures.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

The Black veil.

The creation of distance an elaborate wall of defense indestructible, impregnable. The seeping residue of desire eliminated on sight. Just the slip of the tongue an inkling of fun, in the harshest of lights I find this new sight.  Freedom of sorts exploration of thoughts, no tie to reality my speciality. Follow me into the depths of despair, in the shadows you’ll find someone to care, a troll a monster or darkness itself. Walk with me through the hollow shells, where once sat a heart that often did swell. Let me use you and take you I promise it’s true. The honesty found in the erective salute and the white flaming juice that you’re able to shoot. Play the strings, strum them, listen as their melody fills the air and know for a moment that you are there. Hope for a moments recognition in the blinking of an eye,  see the emptiness recognised by only the sky. Sheets covered, sticky and wet, a moments pleasure you might try to forget. It follows you around in the depths of your mind, a curiosity of what creature you’ve found. Emotive humans slave to their thoughts always seeking what they believe to have sought. Spiteful words, indignation to the free soul that constantly needs out for an elaborate stroll. Walks filled with passion, fingers that roam, thoughts that are free to imagine,  yet blinded in the caves of repression. A divide, a sliver of time where darkness hides. A slip of the foot, a slide of the toe changes the results of the black lace show. Bodies hanging from the butchers hooks desire congealed in realities nook. Flesh and blood and bone, alone. Alone. Aesthetically pleasing until the flesh will rot, bones will crumble, blood will dry and no one will utter goodbye.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016.

The lonely path.

How i’ve longed to love you so,

for days to pass, to come and go.

How i’ve wished away the stars,

to keep myself upon this path.

Silent words to the universe,

promised wishes and muttered curse.

But never did you see me so,

and now my love, I must go.

The end has come,

for this lonely show.

Karen Hayward (Copyright 2015.)