Inner voices.

This is a collaboration piece between myself and Zigzagstripes  . Zigzagstripes  is a great erotic poet, he explores topics with a level of bravery that I love. He is a refreshingly fearless erotic writer and I like it 🙂 you should go check him out :).

Do you sense me, as I sense you tingling on my skin?

Do you hear my beating heart
or my blood that rushes through my veins?
Do you hear the cackling of the sparks?
Do you smell my heightened scent?


I can feel the electricity,
I can taste the need.
I wonder what would quench you
what wanton erotic deed.


Do you feel me as I tingle?
Can you taste me on your tongue?
Come into my mind and
we’ll have a little fun.


I want more than in your mind
I want your body so I can bind
I want to release that pent up charge
I want to unplug you fucking hard

But… Are you sure…?
For this tingles a strong old charge,
It’s more than just a spark and I’m such a bad girl
I’ll likely slip my binds,
and baby, 
you need to know, I will devour your mind.


It’s there for a predator
For a predator to feast
But once ingested
You’ll have no peace
You’ll have perversions
Thoughts never seen
Running your mind
Turning it obscene.
You’ll be incapacitated
Struck down sick
Stroking all day
Imagining dick
So feast away
Eat all you can
But once your infected
I’ll have control of your hands


Life, with a gun about her head,
did say,..
You want him here inside your bed?
To feel the devils touch of sin
lingering on your precious skin?’.

And I replied…

let him come a crawling i say
As the devil lifts the sheets away
May he be that mortal sin
May he be the one to touch my skin
To enter my soul and feed within 
and when he asks…
Will you come down with me
To hell in blessed agony”

I’ll simply say…Take my hand and lead the way…’

©2016 Zigzagstripes and Karen Hayward.

All those years ago.


When they ask me about those years, I always think of you.The quiet little mouse in the geography class. Thick brown hair and a wedge of a fringe. Dark hair covered your arms and legs, white virginal socks pulled up beneath the knee just skimming the royal blue skirt. I think of you. I think of you squashed into the corner by the wall, somehow hiding from view, I wonder how long you were there, and how many of us knew. I didn’t know your name, I didn’t have a clue, but then I rarely ever was there for Geography until that day. He warned you, at the end of the lesson, do you recall? He warned you that I was trouble, to stay away! He was right of course, although how would he have known? He actually wrote across my school report, ‘Who is Karen?’ so how would he even know that I was trouble. We were different, me and you. I had long curly hair right the way down to my bum, dyed black, I wore black eye shadow and black lipstick. My skirt was rolled over until it barely skimmed the cheeks of my bum I wore black tights and wedged shoes, or biker boots. We were different me and you. I sat over by the window, I can still remember the blue sky and the small white clouds that filled it. I don’t recall what it was that he said. Why we all turned to look. I don’t recall the reason why we were all looking over into that corner at you. You looked so bloody scared, so fucking frightened. I didn’t understand. I can’t pretend that I did. All I saw were the bandages and in a heartbeat I knew that something so terrible had happened and that such a thing to occur you must have been hurting in ways that even I could not understand. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t understand. We were fourteen. Nothing bad happens to fourteen year olds, certainly not good girls like you, me, yeah, totally, but good pure, innocent girls like you, no. I didn’t understand, I didn’t need to understand, I didn’t think. I sometimes think that this is the moment when my soul first appeared. This is the moment when it screamed out to me that I was not all that I appeared to be. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me that pulled out that chair next to you and slammed myself into it. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me that turned toward the class and told every one to go fuck themselves. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me that sat with my back to you guarding you from sight. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me that turned to the teacher and called him a mother fucking cunt (it was however me that did a weeks detention and an extra month on report for that!). C. to this day I don’t know what happened. I never understood what those bandages meant, I never understood and yet I knew they were something and I didn’t need to know anything else. We became friends that very day. We were so very different.

I see you from time to time. We always stop and chat. You’re looking well and you make me proud. Your path I know now was so very different to mine. Your head muddled with voices, telling you to do things.  You look so very well. I realised today as you sat sipping tea, you changed me. All those years ago in that stupid classroom, you changed me. You showed me a glimpse of a side of me that I never knew existed. I protected you all those years ago because I knew in that instant that you needed it, you showed me that I was capable of standing out in the world alone, of standing up and having an opinion or a thought that was different from the crowd and you taught me, that was not only okay, but it was tremendous. So when they ask me about all those years ago, I think of you and your courage and your strength and your friendship ♥.

Screams of the savaged soul.

I really shouldn’t wonder,

and I really shouldn’t care,

your voice comes to me like thunder,

and I know that you are there.

I try to keep you locked away,

to keep you out of sight

but, my dear, you will not stay,

you beg me for the light.

I whisper, as the night does come,

and beg of you to hear,

the moon, i say, is now your sun,

come here, and hold me near.

But alas you cannot stay

in this dark and empty life

as you cut all that’s in your way

with your double bladed knife.

The silence is too loud,

the shadows are too dark,

stand tall and make us proud,

it’s time to play your part..

And I do not know their faces,

or the words that they do shout,

I’ve seen them several places

but, what are they about?

They offer me salvation

from the darkness in the night,

an end to the devastation,

and the promise of the light.

Karen Hayward (Copyright) 2015.

The chameleon of evolution is a psychotic find.

There’s loneliness in the institute of the white padded walls

Where your voices echo helplessly in the darkened halls.

Where you scream and shout to eliminate your pain

To dissolve the evil voices, so you once again can reign.

There’s a cunningness in the persona that occupies your mind

The chameleon of evolution is a psychotic find.

A masquerade of survival it eliminates the threat

Until sleep deprivation calls in the debt.

The padding feels like candy cotton as the sedation flows

 silencing the voices as the heavy curtains close.

It rips through the grey matter freezing the soul

Punishment for creating an alternative role.

The Broken Serial Killer

‘Your Dad was right, you’re useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper.’
Tim clumsily paced around the small cluttered living room, knocking into the old brown coffee table, sending a pile of paper work scuttling across the carpet. His hands were shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Tim grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the floor and took a long swig. He hoped the alcohol would invade his body, comatose him, he desperately needed sleep. He prayed that enough alcohol might bring him death, peace.
‘You’re not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make daddy proud.’
Tim turned to look toward the corner of the room, where the voice had come from. The girls soft voice reminded Tim of his Mother.
‘Pick up the gun, Tim.’ she whispered.

‘Are we doing this, or what ?’
Tim turned to where he had heard the mans voice come from. Looking directly at the armchair, his drunken dad had occupied for so many years, he desperately replied,
‘I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy.’
Tim paused in front of a broken mirror. His eyes sunken and bloodshot, skin deathly pale. It had been three days since his Fathers funeral. He tried to sleep, but the memories crept into his dreams, forcing him awake, sweat covering his body, his heart beating rapidly as his screams echoed around the empty house. The scars that map out across his pale broken body, ache, constantly. Tim ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, rubbing the tip of his thumb along the groove of a ten year old scar. A constant reminder of why he must never ask questions about his Mother. For seventeen years his Father had controlled his every movement. Had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Had constantly reminded him, that it was his fault ’mummy’ had left.

No one noticed the anxious man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. The bright florescent lights inside the shop stung Tim’s eyes, blinking he accustomed himself to the new and threatening surroundings. Slowly walking along the aisle toward the cashier at the far end, he watched the old man reading behind the counter, the graveyard shift was always the most peaceful. Without hesitation, Tim pulled out the 22 Calibre gun, and pointed it towards the shop keeper.
‘You stole my Mummy’
The shopkeeper looked from Tim to the gun. His shaking hands rose in a peaceful gesture. Tim pressed hard against the trigger, hoping for relief from the voices. The shopkeeper had no time to react as the bullet hurtled towards him, entering his heart.
Tim ran from the shop, out into the night. Struggling to hold himself together, he shouted into the darkness
‘Please, I did it. Please let me sleep.’
It was quite the voices had gone… for now.

I wrote this is an excercise for a tutorial, please feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading.