Mans deathly song and still they have not apologised.

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A burden of poison spills from your lips
truths once held become mans laborious chip, “And still they have not apologised”
I ponder who ‘they’ are and beg they
stand forward with their fellow man
and plead requital in united stand,
But alas ‘they’ do not exist
A figment of propaganda how many times
must we say sorry for the sins of
our fathers?
My hands are clean of blood, my mind clean of hate,
And still you condemn me to the devils gate.
Poison spills from the devils lips
As you recreate little bits, history told
from the sight of the blind, for the deaf
of muted mind, so little truth there to find.
And we say show us the facts
And you say Jezebel, hinderer of truth
Lies, mud-blood . . . “look how they refuse
to listen, refuse to repent for their sins”
And still I ask you show me these things.
Hate is a heavy burden for any heart,
And lest we ever forget the trampled chains of regret from a life dug in the past, we etch unity now in the minds of our crying bairns. But for all our
whispers of love you tell them of
a hate that belongs not of this time.
You twist a truth to fit a crime a minority report not yet conceived, by a future stained in the blood of your hate. Future generations stained not by history or apologies from non existent entities, futures generations destroyed by the hate of your tongue, humanities personal civil war, man on fellow man with your
propaganda proposals and
puppeteer strings, yet no one stops to
ask, from where came this mans
deathly sting.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

a genetic mutation…

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I sometimes wonder, am I wrong?

Am i wired faulty,

do I have a genetic mutation a

neuro-developmental glitch.

For no matter how hard I try,

I cannot see the world through

positioned eyes.

Words fail to slip from my tongue in

control of another,

I do not perceive a finishing line

that I must cross, or a spiritual path

that I must bless. I will not use my

gift to harm others…No matter what

weakness I know to be true, never will

I use them to hurt another like you.

My fault lays within, it’s the power to feel,

when pain has been felt,

it changes your view.

A mutation

a glitch

a malfunction of sorts,

to perceive beyond normal thoughts,

it’s a burden I carry into each day,

to know the reasons for what others say

is the reason I rise at the break of each day.

 

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

chaos

Breathe in.
Deep.
Deeper.
Take the mornings
fragrance
into your soul.
Own it.
Know it.
It is the scent
of shame.
Never
forget it.

God, God’s
Deities, cosmos,
Angels, Gaia,
Science, Atoms
Spirits, nothing.

Breathe in.
Deep.
Deeper.
Feel the moist air.
Celestial tears
for the fallen.
Own it.
Know it.
It is the tears
of shame,
never
forget it.

God. God’s.
Deities. Cosmos.
Angels. Gaia.
Science. Atoms.
Spirits. . .
Nothing.

Breathe in.
Deep.
Deeper.
Listen. Listen
to your inner guide.
Hear the universe
as she speaks.
Karma has a voice.
The angels speak
in whispers.
God talks through
pray.
The earth screams
through leaves.

Our fallen,
angel wings
leave a trail of
shadows to
heaven’s gate.

God. God’s.
Deities. Cosmos.
Angels. Gaia.
Science. Atoms.
Spirits. . .
Nothing. . .
Stand guard.
Delivering.
Returning evil.
Waiting at the
gates of hell.

There is no glory
In blood
stained hands,
even Satan,
refuses to open
his gates.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

Image found on pinterest

Battleground.

When the silencer is lost,
words spill without thought
breaking the barrier,
mightier
than any, strength burns in my mouth. It is more than
a crime I have committed
in breaking the silence, egg shells and the blood of war
cover my soles.
Your silence is the dagger that slices me.
Your tongue is the war that we battle.
Your hate is the battle I lose.

Karen Hayward ©2016

I hate, truly despise from

the essence of my soul,

fucking washing machines.

Why must you send those fragrant

scented bubbles hurtling across

my floor, caressing all they

find? Why must you fill my sink?

Why must you make my life

so fucking hard. Why must I call Mr

plumber again. Again.

Never in my life did I ever dream

I would say this, but please

I just want to do the fucking

washing!!!

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

Empty bottles fill your yard.

 

 

I sometimes sit at the kitchen table and just listen.

From here I am perfectly placed to hear the echos of

your childlike shrill as you protest in a drunken haze.

‘No, i ain’t ‘aving dat.’ I can hear your tears at the back

of your throat, you’re dragging them across your tongue

forcing them to fall, but your eyes remain dry. I have to

remind myself that you are my age and still living

like a child. A child lost somewhere in adult form among

the empty wine bottles and powder topped classic books.

I shiver at the very thought of such disrespect. But you have

been bred on disrespect and you shrug  it from

your sullen shoulders leaving behind that chip. I hear your

mothers stomach before I interpret her words, deep and

ragged she pushes them out with force from deep down

inside. Her profanities are laced in decades of hardened

fat, a vile stench clinging to each word as though it were

a dagger aimed at your back, to sit quietly alongside

the others she placed there. ‘He’ is a soft mumble of words

that match his smile. The gentle calm as he slowly sips on

red wine or vodka or gin or whatever it is you have dished out

into those overused glasses. One becomes two and his

eyes glaze, three becomes a line snorted in full view,

four becomes the anger in those piercing blue eyes.

Five becomes the thunder that rattles the walls as Mother

dearest sleeps. Six and he is heard. Seven and she sleeps.

Eight and a tornado rips through the room. The callous shriek

of who loves who more, ‘stupid, bitch, cow, slut.’ the lamp

is smashed, his voice gentle but his movements heavy.

Your eyes are no longer dry. You will scream as you always do

frustration spilling onto your bedroom walls. ‘Out.’ she’ll

scream her belly roaring. In the morning you’ll gather up

the remains of proof of who she loves more, as she sits

on the phone to her precious. Her sneers a nagging rumble

of the hunger she has to defeat you. I sometimes sit at the

kitchen table and listen as you repeat history, again and again.

 

Karen Hayward © 2016