We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty
rebal with a cause of our own
repelling authority, society, reality
followed a path of wildness sown.
They said, we had perfect hips
Was good for nothing but having kids
One dad, two, three, maybe four
Poverty cycle, repeating the poor.
We succeeded at failing, came top of our class,
Sipped on cidar from our childhood flasks.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt.
Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care,
No one even noticed when we stopped going there.
We wore indifference across our lips
prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick.
And when time suddenly came, exams taken,
Sixteen went past, future forsaken
Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing,
New life created in a career of caring.
Some of us paused in a psychodelic dream
Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.

Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break,
So I picked up the books and read by the lake.
They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all,
I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall.
I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view,
A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue.
They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more”
And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure…
But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy,
Whispered through days kept my dreams coy.
I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes,
No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.

There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see,
An etched line for the men, a reality,
not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence,
No, its a line that demands female defiance…

But poverty has no glass, just hips
and glossy red lips,
No succeeding, just expectations of failing,
You either fail at school and fight for a life,
Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife.
My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty,
Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality,
They set a standard, the poor girls target,
dreams are only for the rich they say
use the gifts God gave you that day…

They said I was good for nothing
all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…

My Dad said, girl, do you see that star?
No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far…
He said, keep walking till you have that in sight,
That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on pinterest

… His words taste like the outer corners of lust, coveted by dark shadows. A curse of black mist rising in me. If I am the succubus then he is my master, puppeteering my desire, fingering my needs to his command. His touch is the black leather choker at my slender neck. His voice the liberating echo of passion that lubricates my strings….and in his eyes is the promise of a million kisses, each one new, deep, purposeful. Each kiss overflowing with lust, each kiss a binding promise of trust, each kiss an exchange of power… And if I am his succubus, a vessel of need then he is my master and from him alone I feed, for there in his kisses, his touch and his eyes, is an abundance of love filling my skies.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Tinker tailor soldier… 

Sometimes you can bite a tongue too deep,
Awaken a dormant sleeping beast,
A scorpio was never born to be meek
Her protective stance is her sleep…

But scales must be aligned, to be fair
You ever wondered how she got there?
A Lone walker, she needs no one to care
Self destruct, from a single source they share.

Now silence echoes as the future calls
A blip on the radar she will cut the cord
Pull at the lines and break her own fall
At best it will leave her just a little bit sore.

For meekness was never her skin
and respect not given where dues
Is the strength it now brings
as she wanders away,
to forget about you, for the loss
of respect, where respect was due.

Karen Hayward ©2018 image and words 

…and then I was caught.

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…And when I search the confines of imagery within my mind,

when I look and find…You are sleeping.

And in the silent whisper of curiosity my fingers,

soft and gentle explore this new found treasure

in waters deep and tranquil.

I touch skin so dark with fingers so light,

never before have I seen such contrasting beauty.

I touch, what is not mine to touch and I caress

what it is I desire.

And as you sleep,

slumber gentle and need so raw

my resistance is beyond my power,

primal need burns inside…To taste,

to taste the hardness of your drive,

the product of your dreams

and my lips are there,

softly rubbing against the tip.

Each gentle touch met with enthusiasm,

my tongue circling,

licking,

more,

more…

and you are awake

and I am caught, blushing,

cheeks flushed followed by the

sudden rush as bodies meld

and passion spills.

Karen Hayward ©2017

 

Blindness to societies reality. 

How blind must we be 

To believe the choice is free? 

Unity? 

Another woman’s fantasy. 

How blind must we be,

That we cannot comprehend reality? 

Adequate education? Is a fallacy. 

Broken assumptions they’re carefree,

Our hate, is pure insanity. 

Water the root to grow the tree

Teach our girls love isn’t free,

And teach the boys 

there’s no choice to flee. 

How blind must we be? 

To assume the choice makes us free. 
Karen Hayward ©2017 image and word’s.

Power in silence.

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There is power in silence,

it echo’s through the soul

shattering the crevices of existence.

Weaving a cage of dysfunction,

unspoken words become haunting

thoughts lingering beneath rocks

of the mind bleeding into the

essence of being.

There is power in silence.

Karen Hayward ©2016