Iridescent hues…

People,
are not so unlike
the iridescent hues
of colour that freckle
out across the canvas.
Perception being
both ally and enemy
as their colours change
like the chameleon,
a different light,
a different face
A single mask
painted in
iridescent tones
of life.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Peel open your broken eyes. 

I pity the puppeteer playing a lonesome game

pulling, tugging, delving into shame. The narcissist 

has a dictionary, armed and ready to use. 

They can pull you into a world of wonder, 

splendour pouring from their fingers

working you like the puppet that you are. 

And when you tire of the game 

when your arms hurt from the constant 

worship and your words run dry they will cry. 

Cry. Cry. Cry.

Cry words of loss and abandonment to fill 

your soul with the murky stench of guilt.

They will cry. 

And the puppeteer in gleeful splendour 

shall once again control the strings 

whilst you believe it’s love they sing…

But alas my pitisome broken dear, 

The narcicists controls your fear

They cannot lose, they must keep you near. 
Karen Hayward ©2017

Visual sense.

Portals to the soul,
happiness that sparkles,
pain that dulls,
confusion that sits in the corners,
fear that flames.
A perfect outer shell of a soul, a map of latent symbols,
I taste the spirit that seeps from the pores beneath my tongue.
I feel the softness beneath my my finger tips.
Gates of paradise from which secrets are whispered,
the rising pleasure and tipping sensuality of abandonment.
Teasing hints and happy thoughts.
Desolate souls with trap doors within their throats.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Just ranting…

 

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I’m an introvert and in my perfect world there would be no need for communication. We would instead converse directly, telepathically, there would be no need for eye contact, or finding the right words, I wouldn’t need to muddle through my thoughts and translate my poetic musings into dialogue and fuck adjacency pairing (conversational turn taking), fuck, fuck adjacency pairing. And don’t touch me, please, I can see you need to hug a random stranger and that’s your business, I will not judge, but please, don’t make me that person. Don’t think at any point it is okay to get up in my space and let your skin come even close to mine, it’s not okay…i’m not broken, don’t look at me with those displeasing eyes, i’m sorry that you think me the rude one when I recoil from your touch or when suddenly I stop talking and fucking blush. Listen and I will speak but don’t expect to find me talking in the crowds, instead I like to watch hidden by my shroud. Lead into privacy where my voice alone can rise. Fuck, I am a walking contradiction. There are millions, billions perhaps of nerve endings sitting beneath the skin waiting to be triggered, waiting to shoot out mini fucking canons every single time they are stroked gently as though you were petting a cat, i’m not a fucking cat, do not pet me. Get out of my personal space, my muscles are tight from resisting the urge to go bat shit crazy…it’s like tickling my fucking nerve endings then walking away, now the fuckers are awake they need to feel, they need the deep penetration of touch, fuck, fuck, fuck. I sometimes think I truly despise people, I mean that in a nice way :). It’s times like this when I am very aware of my contradictions, I hate being touched, I hate being hugged and fuck me I hate when people think it’s okay to touch without permission. I love touch when it’s done right, I love deep touch that I can truly feel, not gentle tiny fucking annoying strokes. I hate having to talk with people, I like living inside my little bubble, I like being alone, I like solitude…I love talking with the right people, I love talking to those that know my silence means nothing more than an invitation for them to crawl on up inside my mind. I hate small talk I like real talk. I hate talking about how I feel I fucking love talking about how I feel! I hate talking about my thoughts and feelings and yet fucking hell they spill onto the page as though my life depended upon it. I’m a worthy walking contradiction, a beautifully quirky contradiction…just don’t touch me or hug me or fucking stroke me like a cat, don’t assume I’m an extrovert because of my self confidence, loving myself is easy :). I know i’m kinda hard, but the clues are clearly there just know that if I say it, it means I truly care.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

 

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

 

These people are breeding.

This is a rant not a poem, sorry ’bout that!
The first rant, walking back from line dancing/gossip time with the gals I was stopped by an elderly man, he asked me if I knew where he could sell some tape cassettes. I gently told him it was unlikely he would find anywhere to buy them and he explained to me that he had found a Dab radio in a charity shop, but was short a couple of quid so he had offered them the tapes as part exchange, but they refused. Two pound short. He started crying and said he just wants to be able to listen to music, his home is ever so quiet and he misses sound. Two pound fucking short, they’re meant to be a charity shop, they’re meant to be about helping people. I gave the man my head phones and popped a song on YouTube for him before giving him the two pound. Bless his cottons he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But really two fucking pound, surely they could have knocked two pound off the over charged second hand radio! When we did stop doing stuff to help people so as to line our pockets with money instead?

Second rant. Spread across my Facebook page today are home made video’s of a man standing on a first floor ledge above some shops here in my hometown, on the pavement below are emergency services. Watching are a group of so called adults, filming and slinging abuse. I’ve just read 52 responses to the video and all but one are offensive. The dumbest one I read was ‘He’s asking for a cheeseburger. That’s not mental illness, he’s just a cunt.’ Cos, yeah they use the cheese burger question when they are evaluating at the doctors, ‘hey, how are you today, let me ask you a question, are you partial to a cheese burger? You are, great news it’s not mental illness, that’s another bed I’ve saved at Peterbruff. The most illogical one I have read is, ‘they (the ambulances) could be off saving someone.’…hmmmm, the man is stood on a ledge, what he isn’t worthy of being saved?

I feel nothing but shame when I see people respond this way to another human. To think I am actually sharing the same air as these people, worse these people are breeding, these people actually have the fucking vote. When I think that women had to fight so fucking hard to able to vote and these men actually have it by default. These are the very same people that are screaming from their arm chairs not to let the refuge’s into our country, because obviously every single one that the UK allows in are actually going to be coming right here to my little town. Their argument? Look after your own…isn’t that man on the ledge one of our own by their very own definition? Humanity is shot to pieces we’ve lost our ability to be empathic towards other humans. These people don’t need to be standing and staring they are there out of their own desire to see someone worse off than them, they are feeding on the circumstances of this man. The worse thing is they don’t know why he is up there, they’re just passing judgement, anything to make themselves feel better. Clearly they have very blessed lives and are enjoying flaunting this. These people are human trolls and that guy on the ledge can’t just ignore them and they’ll go away. At what point will people stop and see that learnt negative behaviour will be our downfall. I wonder how many of those adults will go home and spend the evening talking about the attention seeking cunt that was wasting the emergency services time, and how many children, innocent, pure and loving minds will hear this, and the dreadful lessons they will be learning.

I feel nothing but shame. This is the world I am offering my daughter, my nieces and nephews, children of friends I know and ones I haven’t met yet. We’re leaving them a world that lacks humanity. How the fuck will they survive.

Karen Hayward ©2016