To ebb with the moons blessing

It is believed to be an honor
to ebb in sync with the moon
as she waxes into her full face
The ancient whispers of truth
filling sisters with grace…
Shamans, priestesses and healers
synchronise to this cycle of blood,
the red moon, ebbing and flowing
outward bound darkness sung
with light energy glowing.

But I would beg to differ…

An insatiable hunger holds me
As my carnivorous desire drives me
Rational thought now a forgotten entity,
The drummer boy with blades my new reality,
Seven days of sleep
then seven days insomnia,
I find silence now at twilight
sit deep in thought throughout my night,
Just me, the ham and the god danm fridge light.

Yet they say,
this is a blessing
the red moons energy
deep within my core
Empowering, releasing…

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

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.

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

Pillows and chocolate.

If you are not a soft plump pillow doused in the soft scent of roses,

then please, begone.

If you are not a feathered duvet that gently hugs my body,

then please, retreat and leave me in peace.

If you are not a place upon which I may lay or sleep,

then please, take heed, turn upon your heel and walk away.

If you do not bring chocolate, an endless supply,

If you come without the iron rich necessities of life

then please, go, come again another day.

If you are not the warm hands pressed against my stomach,

if you are not the slow beating heart sent to distract,

if you are not the warmth radiating into me,

then please,

leave me to my silence.

 

Karen Hayward © 2016