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Butterfly in a moths world

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I am suffocating in the constancy of your rage,
drowning in your despair, gasping for air.
Life saturates from me, muting my energy
Zapping my life force in this captive reality.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

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Scar-less Battleground

ladyarmor

I sometimes wonder
why I argue with you,
Why I allow words to
form in my mouth
to slip across my lips
like breath giving
me life, only giving
me death instead.
Rational thought is
the sworn enemy
to the narcissistic
soldier as you point
your arrow and shoot,
and shoot again.
Yet there is no blood,
there is no wound
yet still I wear the scars of your
battleground.

Karen Hayward ©2017

To pick, to pick, to pick… 

One day I’ll tell you perhaps the way pain converts to fear deep inside of me. Some pains are too great, not worthy of the wound and disposable. A scab picked, prodded and thrown to the trash.

Some day, if pain permits, perhaps.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image found on pinterest. 

Lost essence staining my mind. 

I am lost in a field of missed ‘curity 

Seconds pass in the spiking of my fantasy

and the death of my hand made reality

deep in the knowledge of my fantasy, 

Lost deep in the shadows of insecurity.
Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

Where are you now…

I know better…I should at least, but some days I am lost without you. I search the outer confines of my mind for a corner of solitude and find you waiting, guitar and sweet honey voice calling me in with eyes that know and always knew. I have things to tell you but the ocean never listens and Poseidon keeps you busy, I wonder do you hear me? Oh the intrinsic markings of a constellation mapped from times beginning, created you said, slavery nearer the truth as the matrix of our hybrid minds was frozen. You despaired my knowing yet it formed the fragments of our bond, where are you now? To lose, it all, everything but no loss matches the loss of friendship that slipped away that day. Where are you? I know better… I should, yet still I pressed the button and listened as your voice once again echoed through my mind, a moment created then ready for now, or the next time or the time after that. Where are you now, I have tales to tell and thoughts to share, oh where are you now, I have tales to tell and thoughts to share.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Tick fucking to keep. 

Oh dear God your ramblings bore me, a tale written a hundred ways in the ink of yesterday’s prey with the shattered teeth of bairns, screaming atrocities of a life that isn’t fair!! And alas poor child your silver spoon has fallen in your pea green soup whilst casanova jesters locked away in your dungeons, fester!

Fuck, please, do tell me more of yourmacabre tales, your regal beliefs never failhow holy your mottled hollow soul must be, that you condemn all you fucking see!A tale of tantalising words of old, again told and again told and again told… Your silver spoon has fallen, your text book memory stolen, your man made penis swollen….yawn, even writing this is boring me…

KH©2017

Image found on pinterest 

Pistols at the devils dawn. 

With every passing 

second I become the 

essence of the devil. 

You create a masquerade, 

an illusion, 

I am the empty vial, 

the prostitutes vessal, 

a body with only a 

torn soul for survival.
KH©2017 

Daring to breathe 

ladyarmor

Between the static
and crackled echo
I wonder what It is
you hate the most,
My mind for
daring to fight?
Or my lungs for
daring to
breathe.

KH (c)2017
Image found on Pinterest

A blessing in twilight’s thoughts.

ladyarmor

At dawns awakening
the world screeched
upon the etched carvings
of a spiteful tongue,
hates essence
suffocating my light.
Drowning in yester-
years ocean of
delinquent blood.
The hours owned
by the devil, wiped
clean by the angels
beating wings.
The merry go round
of existence. Dawn
becomes day, day
becomes noon,
noon leaves too soon.
After drowning in
evening’s promise,
night begs for
resistance.

Tired eyes and stinging
mind, I walk the halls
to you, no calls for mum,
no echo of media.
I pause about your feet,
and take in life’s splendour.
A gift . . . the soft hum
of sleep already arrived,
the whisper of a moment’s
promise. I pause now with
freedoms time upon my hands,
and stare into the heart
of twilight skies. your
gentle sleep, a melody so
sweet.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

Image found on pinterest

Darkest Light.

 

Photo

Darkest Light

Consuming
and all drowning
my essence of night.
Deepest blue,
darkest burgundy,
it matters not,
my essence is cloaked
in this state, this void.
Think not of my night
and my aura as negative
for a dark state
can be a canvas.
A blank page for
something bright
to create. . .something
bright to form
my nights’ sky
and give it character.
and make it
come alive.

Yet it should consume me.
Darkness such as the night sky
should devour me, swallowing
my essence into oblivion.
Do you see me?
I am a mere whisper
of light lost in the echos of time. Yet,
when you lay me upon
your dark essence,
your canvas
becomes my art.
Your depth is my contrast.
I tip toe through your darkest blues
leaving illuminated kisses.
My essence, glimmers and glistens
upon your touch, for my light. . .
is love,
created by your darkness.

Words & Image
©5-2017 Locthiese/Karen Hayward

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