Sweet love in liquid heaven.

teacups

Sweet tea, the honey nectar of comfort.

Tiny grains of sweetness bleached beyond

recognition taste like unconditional love

against my taste buds. Thick heavy sweetened

milk turned golden brown by processed

leaves held together with mesh and draw string.

The teabag sits solemnly at the bottom of a

china cup, china to keep the tea warmer. White

grains of love sit waiting to drown, to melt,

to transform. Then wait. Patience as the

flavor devours the tasteless water.

Then the milk, enough to create

a shade that reminds me of passion,

enough to cool the water.

Sweet tea, unconditional love in a cup.

Karen Hayward (copyright 2015)

Image from Pinterest.

I am perfect.

I am perfect. Does this make me somehow egotistical? Yes, to some. I am a perfect combination of who I was, who I am and who I will one day become. I am so perfectly chaotic that I organise my chaos in alphabetical order, sometimes. Other times I like the perfect symmetry of size order this allows sequels and prequels equal opportunities to spread their wings amongst a diverse choice of wonder. I am perfect. And I do not need another to value my place within society for I have eyes of my own, perfect eyes, pools of topaz that hypnotically sedate their prey before I spin them into a silken web. If I choose to. But I seldom do for I am perfect and games of place value offer me no entertainment. I do not compete with tantalising tassels of wondrous hair or killer eyes or skin of silken lust, I do not compete with cleavage shots…because I would win that,  and perfectly placed accessories to lead the simple minded testosterone to their slaughter, tongues hanging from their mouths. I have no need, I am perfect and need no assurance on my perfection. I am so incredibly, imperfectly perfect that I bring new meaning to the inability to perform. I am the peacock without my glorious tail feathers to appease my captive audience. I am so perfect I am left with only the choice to dance to an entirely chaotic beat of my own to lyrics that have no home and to music that skips chaotically through the melodies of my mind, whilst all the while stopping to smell flowers, to lose myself in emerald skies and rename a universe of stars. I am perfect. For I do not compete to place value upon myself by stripping away the value of another. We are perfect. The unanimous creation of a undiscovered universe, unique fixtures self embodied by the essence of life. We are perfect in our very forms, in our every moment. I am perfect. You are perfect, but please bide me no time for what right do I have to speak of your perfection, what right does anyone have? I am perfect. We are perfect.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Listen to your heart.

You don’t hear me.

Even my screams go unheard.

I want you, I need you.

You are everywhere.

How can you be everywhere and not hear me?

Perhaps you do hear me,

so what stops you?

Perfection?

You have before you, pure perfection.

A mould of everything you believe yourself to desire.

Safety.

I can not compete, I am not perfect.

I know this, and you know this.

So you block out my voice, my words.

You are safe, you are happy.

My voice  fades away, a distant memory,

No longer heard.

You have lost, I was perfect.

You just never stopped to listen.

To your heart, and not your head.