a genetic mutation…

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I sometimes wonder, am I wrong?

Am i wired faulty,

do I have a genetic mutation a

neuro-developmental glitch.

For no matter how hard I try,

I cannot see the world through

positioned eyes.

Words fail to slip from my tongue in

control of another,

I do not perceive a finishing line

that I must cross, or a spiritual path

that I must bless. I will not use my

gift to harm others…No matter what

weakness I know to be true, never will

I use them to hurt another like you.

My fault lays within, it’s the power to feel,

when pain has been felt,

it changes your view.

A mutation

a glitch

a malfunction of sorts,

to perceive beyond normal thoughts,

it’s a burden I carry into each day,

to know the reasons for what others say

is the reason I rise at the break of each day.

 

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

Tail so bushy…

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Little grey squirrel with a tail so bushy,
I see you sitting upon the red brick wall,
Pausing for a moment, listening for mummy’s call.
I wonder do you smile, as you skip across the road,
I Ponder your existence, squirrel oh so bold.
I wonder do you know that I watch you from afar,
Wondering where you sleep when the skies become dark.
I saw you, just some days gone past
I don’t take your picture, learned you are too fast.
No, instead, I pause and watch your beauty
As you balance the fence, skip jump and run freely.
Little squirrel I Ponder your home among the concrete,
But although sporadic, we do have the trees.
Perception is an interesting sight,
From here to there is a human life
But between the cracks, from my princess’s window,
Is a glimpse to a world, so few even know.
Here the sun rises and rainbows do arch,
Trees can be seen by the eyes oh so far.
I see sunflowers and roses apples and pears,
A glorious land, that the squirrels do share.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

The Peacock dances.

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There’s a repetitive stage,
a repeating of days
when vines interweave
through the speckled
edges of flirtations,
behind no closed doors
peacock feathers
splay upon her shore
through the speckled
flecks of essence
life’s laborious lessons,
I watch the clock
tick tock, tick tock
as zones align a duo
of wakefulness sleeping
through the empty
page…a constellation
of energy mapping
the designed reflection
of the peacocks
beautiful… selection.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image found on pinterest

So little control…

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So little control we have in this world.
I cannot control the weather,
when it rains, it pours, people
get wet and puddles form.
But I can choose to turn my head
to the skies and dance in those puddles.
I cannot control time.
It slips by in a beat of my mind,
grains falling, lost,
forgotten moments
as age creeps upon me.
But I can chase moments, savior time
and live within the seconds.
I cannot control the vicious spite
of a broken soul wallowing in the
Black ink of a victims role, chip
firmly etched upon their shoulder.
No, so little control we have in this
world, the broken will hunt,
kill and gather, and for what? For even this
broken world can see through the
Vicious veil.
I cannot control the actions of another…
I have control only of myself and I can decide to end the cycle.
Hate doesn’t have to breed hate…
And this does not make one weak,
for only the strong stand against societies sheep.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

I sleep with the whispers of your intent upon my skin.

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I tumble daily into your essence,
sleep with the whispers of your
intent upon my skin.
Your words have become fingers
tracing the contour of my breast,
your thoughts the soft breath hardening
my nipples in anticipation of your
mouth…your lips. Your tongue, the bearer
of intent, of pleasures divine…I tumble
daily into these thoughts that
incessantly bind,
I hold you captive in my mind,
ponder the fantasy,
devour your presence,
explore what I can of your mind
and I tumble daily into your essence
sleep with the whispers of
your intent upon my skin
and the soft embrace of your affection,
I tumble daily into your essence.

KH©2017 (16.4.17)

Market scent. . .

Technicolor legs, plastic bags, the bustle of life,

some striped blue, some striped white.

Apple scent hung in the air, angry wasps,

greedily, hovering ready to fight.

Men shouted “Bananas,

come and get your bananas”

in that cocky London accent that felt like honey

being sung across a crowded room.

On sunny days voices echoed above laughter

And when rain fell, the clip clapping of shoes

Surpassed the clip clapping of tongues.

Burgers sizzled, onions frying

cheap vinegar sold as ketchup in

Manky souviettes. Culture? Perhaps.

In among the faces I see hints of my

of second home.

I learned here of a world beyond my own.

But never beyond my Dad,

lost in market scents

Wandering the rainbow hue of humanity,

reaching stars, grabbing at his hand…

Only it never was his hand….How one girl

Could get lost so any times among row

upon row of plastic covered stalls

Is beyond me…The beating of my heart

as the hand was not his,

not his large fingers holding me,

not his warmth not his touch…Somehow in those crowds

Among the legs too busy too stop,

The bustle of voice the bantered rhyme,

Angels, is all i ever found.

Karen Hayward ©2017

A weaved web of lust

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My need
entwined within
your vines.
Locked in a
mortal sin,
thoughts
abandoned for
last rays of desire
smacking across
my skin.
I think of
nothing else.
These are the
words pleading
for the ink of my pen,
lost and again
found in your
intent.
A weaved web of lust
I am ensnared.
Devour me.
Cast about me silk ropes.
Envisage me
powerless
yet powerful
within your grasp.
A slave to our primal pawing.
A slave to our ancient calling.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Words and image