Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
write the
God damn poem,
it isn’t
rocket science.

Karen Hayward ©2019

Molecules for the Blacklight

This isn’t my pen,
someone stole my pencil,
My thoughts are caged
in empty milk cartons
ready to post
“wanted” pictures
made from trace.
Tattered and torn
half arsed ink stains
I write in vain.
The butler stole my
tea, gave me toast
buttered both sides
then dropped me
from the greatest height
My ego has a pain
My heart refuses
now to beat
My soul, deciding
it’s a game,
gave up trying
to be brave.
Reality is a blast
bound in kinky,
curly leather
straps, molecules
for the black light
and rancid eyes
This isn’t my pen
sticky fingers
and licking tongues
toxify my ink
with fugu juice
injecting the heart
vain, hooked up
to the needle
dulling, nullifying,
I’ve sent her into excile
Coventry for lovers
abandoned my muse
to the dungeons
for her crimes
but the prissy little
bitch, took all
my fucking lines…
Now my ink is going limp
erectile dystunction
without the blue pill
I’m just another writer
stuck between the trees
with nothing to say
just words to up and kill….

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest

To write is to breathe

To write is to breathe. The life within me that drives my essence through each crunching day deep into the realms of humanity. I am but the words I spill I am but never the thoughts I kill. 

But true to form. To explore through eyes of sense and feel through words of decorum self discovery, when the shadows come a calling and twilight shrouds us from our dreams. 
An imposter I make false promises to the gods that I shall write of travesties told with my ink the blood of a thousand truths my page the parchment of darkness that haunts our days and I am but an imposter. 
I can speak of no truths. My tongue is tied my hands bound down my ink run dry my parchment burns in flames of reality and every word I place upon the page of fury is erased. Erased. 
I am not worthy to be called a poet I am a traitor to the ancient calling, I can weave but words upon a page and create beauty that lacks soul. I can merge syntax with dialect  and make voice appear from behind the mask. 
I am condemned in dark streets of ego my voice curbed and this posion kills me. Take a bite of my flesh and feel the slow torture of death you deserve it your horned.maker awaits your return, please tell him again, he cannot have my soul. 
Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

Random thoughts.

Random thought of the day, rather then concentrating on dance steps this is what I was thinking about…..

I wonder if there is anything more fascinating then the way boobies do jiggly thing when you dance, walk, move, laugh….breathe…..note to self, really need to make sure I’m wearing a sports bra or at least a supportive top for line dancing! 😀😀😀😀😈

Coffee and Cake.

This is a collaboration piece between myself and a great poet Ron Bergquist, you can discover his amazing works over here at his Blog Ron Bergquist  he writes raw and real no bullshit pretty bows, go check him out :). Him and his work is like a breath of fresh air :).

I say we wrote it, but actually he coaxed the words from me pulling them out from the depths of writers block he then spun his amazing web of thought around them and created this little masterpiece. He did all the hard work, I just sat about drinking coffee and looking pretty.

Thank you Ron, your encouragement was immensely appreciated.


Take me away on the whisk of a date,

Where space goats meet us drunk at the gate

sipping thimbles full of wine’


Coffee and cake,

take  – this blank canvas,

make it our page.


I like the invitation to write verse together;

as we pause with a finger

to our jaw in awe

of each other;

ooze over each other;

as we contemplate the deeper meanings of life


These animals debate our fate:

feed us from the bars of our cage;

Let’s fill it together with creative rage,

In that perfect way that you and me engage.


If only I could speak as fancy as I THINK

as fast as I THINK fancy thoughts!


“little thimbles;

wine, coffee and cake”


We could speak our minds on the spot –

be energetic and kinetic –

let it all linger.

Or do

1 shot, 2 shots 3 shots


oblivion knocks at the door;


The torrid torment of societies fucked up illusions!

The faceless sheep scrambling for the pedal stool of confusions;

fuck this delusion

fucking loud mouth intrusion

you’re in no position to be

dissin’ me!

so  please be still and shit!

Sit and spit ill wit –  as we contemplate;

plausible fantasy based off our torrid reality;


won’t you sit and sip wine from a thimble

with me?

Eat cake and drink some tea?

As goats sit pretty and try to define,

our destiny.


©Ron Bergquist and Karen Hayward 2016

I am the blank canvas.



I never said you could take my page,

dampen down my internal rage.

I never asked for this haunting silence

a metaphorical pain that’s worse than violence.

I never said you could have my words

or make my page a fucked up blur.

I never asked for your opinion

so I tell you now you have no dominion.

Drop a silent atom bomb upon my soul

and gather up the thoughts you think you stole.

Steal away the edges of my sanity

and try your hardest to install some vanity.

Pull at the essence of my being

and blind me from feeling what i’m seeing.

Sink me into the abyss of darkness

beneath an emerald sky so starless.

Try your hardest.

Know what it is to fail as I rise again from the ashes

a seasoned traveler I’ve mastered the crashes.

I am not your blank canvas

a tired mind empty and planless.

I am the thoughts that spill to my page

that slip between the bars of the iron cage.

I am the essence of touch in the darkness of night

devouring with passion my every sight.

So go ahead do your best,

create the silence that I detest.

Erase the markings leave only the spaces

where actually you’ll find crimson red laces.

I am more than the words, the thoughts or the gestures,

I am the blank canvas just waiting for treasure.


Karen Hayward ©2016




Constant flow without a show.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’ve forgotten all the words

I don’t recall what I heard.

They’re seeping from the page

before I can thoroughly engage.

I’d catch them if I could

on the net, in a book,

but they come out oh so fast

and I can only see the last.

I taste them as they flow

a three course show

of delectable bites

and vivid sights.

I’m losing all my thoughts

all the dreams I have sought

what will I have left

I feel so utterly bereft.