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Month: February, 2016

Writing sins not tragedies.

What I know,

what you don’t know,

what I know,

is you just flushed

away trust

in the stroke of your hand.

Questioned connection

it’s stained permanently

beneath the UV lamp,

it’s all in the fluoresce.


Karen Hayward ©2016


Was God even listening?

As a kid I knelt at the side of my bed. Eyes closed, hands clasped together I prayed to God that I would wake from this continuos dream. Turns out I wasn’t dreaming.

Karen Hayward ©2016


Songs sung in the whispered notes of a lovers whistle.
Among the luscious blooms of a spring morn,
As dark skies loom bidding farewell,
And the burning sun loses her shell.

A moment spared in time.
The solitude of Mothers earth
and God’s creation.
The silent faces and listening hearts,
As joy is sung and love is danced.

The carefree flight from branch to nest,
A chorused melody of love piercing the melancholy.
Whistled songs of unknown words,
A calling back to say they’ve heard.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

In my perfect world.

You would be my toy of choice,
skin on skin beneath a shaded light
fingers fumbling and skin alive.
The tips of nerves, stretching, slow and deep,
moments in memories meant to keep.
In a life that let me loan,
You’d be the passion behind each moan.
You’d be my worn out disc
Worth every moment spent at risk.
In a perfect world where I did rule,
You’d be my perfect relaxation tool.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Ode to my headphones.

Solitude, another world untouched by reality

a vortex of gratitude, a gift from Barachiel perhaps.

They exist, so I may exist in the darkness. They are

my light and without them my world is plunged

into the abyss alongside Satan and his lonely soldiers.


It is love. With every flutter of my heart with every

beat to the rhythm of sound it is love. It sweeps

through my soul freeing me. A tiny world encompassed

in the whitest light.  They are silence,

In a world that so is audibly violent.

They are hope when my light cannot burn,
When it flickers weak in the screaming breeze,
A magnitude of thoughts, hummed, sung, played, spoken,
Whispered to me as I fall.
They are the only one to see my tumble, the only one to call my name.

Harmonious perfection, a chorus of comfort,
As they play the secrets to my life,
Repeating the drumming soldier, the screaming broken soul,
the essence of love, the token of…friendship.
The belief in myself, they are my strength, when I am weak.

They are my light, my only light in a world engulfed in the flames of hell.
Without them I am lost plunged back into the punishment of silence.
The bridge between nowhere and hope.
They are love, they are my soul, my spirit and the essence of
My being.

Karen Hayward © 2016.


Make love to me.

Strip away my outer layers,

lay me bare upon the bed

and make love to me.

But first…

give me make up sex,

break up sex,

morning sex and middle of the night sex.

Give me needy sex and lazy sex

and foreplay will do tonight sex.

Give me selfish sex,

selfless sex.

Give me on the stairs, the table, the sofa

and the living room floor sex.

Give me slow sex.

Fast sex.

Give me sex fueled by passion




Give me lights off sex,

lights on sex,

middle of the day sex.

When you have stripped me bare

and I am left with only my


then make love to me.


Karen Hayward ©2016



Naked thoughts upon a summer breeze.

One day I will wake up and I will have forgotten.
I will have forgotten to hold back my thoughts and they slip from my lips with natural ease.
I will have forgotten about the wall I placed around myself, brick by brick, and I will walk straight through it unharmed.
One day my thoughts will become words and I will not notice as they tumble onto the breeze.
One day I will forget and the last mask will fall again and I will be bare.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Blank page of repression.

Where else can I write these words, but here on

the empty page away from prying eyes

and praising sighs.

Where else, but here, can my soul appear in black

and white and cry soft tears

of repressed beauty.

Where else, but here, can I bow my head and utter whispers of truth

to an unknown audience

and silent critics.

Karen Hayward ©2016


Beating flesh.


A helpless romantic,
hapless endeavours, darkness calling,
shadows spinning.
Love worn on the
Sleeveless arm
the expenditure, a soul.
Torn, mutilated, dysfunctional.
Spirit waned, despondent.
Using the light as stepping
stones to reach the darkness.
A vice grip, blood dripping,
heart massacred
clawing at the shredded pieces.
Super glue, brown paper, string and spit holding
together the
mass of beating
flesh in broken rhythm.

Karen Hayward ©2016

The cerebral effect.

A life devoid of emotions.
Let the sin of skin speak the truths and
devour our souls as passion slips
through onto the page. Fill the
emptiness with desire. Desire.
Desire that is inspired by an emotional
attraction. Fuse the temporary emotions
that can be created for purpose. Purpose,
the emotional state of being. Without being there
is no purpose. Emptiness that devours the soul
even death would be a welcomed benefactor, there
is no fate worse than this, the vastness of an
abyss. Frozen in time as an old homemade VHS tape
flicks though the candid camera. Before pictures.
Black and white tinged in belief, spoiled now
with a rainbows smear as even the leprechaun
sheds a tear for the broken. To venture, leave
behind past scars and become devoted to the
moment without concern for the future.
Remove my domino, let the cloak fall to
my feet and bare myself with the abandonment
of an untouched spirit and let passion be the
sparkle in my dying eyes. A life devoid of
emotion, is no life at all, it is the black abyss
of faithful regret, the cerebral effect of monotone
existence. It buries my raw in the bloodied
mud of mistrust and flows through my veins
poisoning my essence. It is the slow death
that creeps though your days as the angel
hides in the shadows, watching and waiting
to collect your part lived soul. But as he reaches
down to pick you out from the crowd, the
hollow shell cracks, the soul atomized. Forgotten
dust as the breeze carries the delicate petals
on new adventures.

Karen Hayward ©2016.