Likely set ablaze the page… 

My thoughts would likely
set ablaze the page,
Perhaps best I let them fester
In silent implosions
dot to dot conclusions
and solid doubt
of realities illusions.
Delusions
My thoughts would likely
tear holes through
constellations
rip apart solar systems
Redesign the universe
and yet, would
surely quench this
burning thirst
A cure for perhaps
mothers tongue, a curse.
My thoughts
My thoughts
My thoughts would surely
set ablaze the page
Crimson flow,
nature’s rage
Not wrong not right
Blinded by terrors sight
upon my tongue then
I shall bite,
whilst quietly waiting
for the emptyness
of night.

Karen Hayward ©2017

It might be… Pms

It might be,
pre menstrual cramp,
a drummer boy,
blade in hand
Perforating holes through
scars of ovaries.
Or it could be the tiredness
that 5am brings in the silence of
darkness,
it might be nothing,
everything,
or a little in between.
It is perhaps a rise
in hormones a dip in
pain levels and the swirling
tug of sore muscles.
It could be a lack of chocolate
A need for food, a rumbling
stomach…
Or storage heaters,
an insomniacs personal
hell, not enough
covers…
A lack of stars
A lack of snow
A lack of moon…
the essence of hera, fear
unknown or the
endless realm of thoughts…

Everything so silent
Everything so distant
Everything so dark
Everything so…

Karen Hayward ©2017

Insecurities rush, the blind side.

img_20160610_182202.jpg

It claws at me gently as hormones rise,

I know the uncertainty of insecure skies,

When enough, leaves and I see not a thing

Oh how I know what the short rise will bring.

But if nothing is all and all is free,

There’s nothing left for my broken soul, to see.

A blank page and empty space

Expect nothing, leave negative space.

I’m a whisper, a silhouette a bland empty ghost,

So alone I stand and alone I host.

Karen Hayward ©2017

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