Media, pedia….


We don’t look like that, do we?
All tanned and toned and
perfectly honed, with matching
knickies, bra and socks…
No not socks, panty hose
swaying frocks, and perfect
thick, fine, curly, straight
long short, natural, dyed locks
And breath.
We don’t look like that. Do we?
Not naturally, surely.
Hell I’m all pale skin
curves not thin
odd socks, hipster pants
and runaway hair, tamed
and flamed, a wild mane.
I suppose I could change.
Paint away my creases
Click away my knobbly knees
Re-root my slither of silver strands
Start wearing, pink, frilly pants
matching lace bras and sheer tights,
nylons, pantyhose…I’d fill them with holes!
We don’t look like that,
really, do we?
Do we? Tell me, do we?
I suppose I could use
lotions and potions
rewind the motions.
such an odd notion.
To be something we are not,
or perhaps we are
perhaps I am wrong
I should adorn a thong
be smooth to the touch
hide away my blemishes
I should embrace the fuss…

…doesn’t really matter
what I think, we grade beauty on
personal perception,
do they think this is real? Banished blemishes,
smoothed out creases,
erased slithers of silver…

..men are daft,
surely, yes.
Do they really care?
Or are they
too busy
toning up
picking vests,
Oiling up
perfect six packs
combing through
Mc dreamy hair
trying also,
to be magazine
best.

Am I wrong?
Should I care?

Karen Hayward © 2018

In the link is 18 images of one woman, photoshopped differently according to culture…

It’s so easy to get caught up thinking women (and men also) look like the images in magazines, or that we should attain to look like them.

Media makes us ashamed of age, growing older, silver/grey hair, stretch marks, extra weight or untoned muscles, that we forget the simplicity of imagery….they’re just meant to look pretty.

Women (and men) do not look like this…but do we know this? Do they know this? Isn’t that where the insecurity lays?

Daisy, dandy, buttercup kisses

I’d rather be a weed,
then a flower. I’d rather
be seen as ugly
then pretty, strong
then weak. Resiliently
stubborn fuels my
survival.
I’d rather grow in the
cracks of a beaten side
walk where the
old and the young,
pause before me,
then be lost in the
shadows of a
forgotten garden.
I’d rather be a weed
I’d rather be free.

Karen Hayward ©2017

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