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Month: March, 2016

The crow without a name.

The crow  visits me so often now, I greet her with no name.
It took a while for me to see, it wasn’t just a game.
She doesn’t hardly say a word and I wouldn’t call her tame.
And yet she whistles out to me, as though she knew my name.

So often I have seen them there I know them of by heart.
Yet still I ponder earnestly the place that I should start.
I tell myself to write them down, create a flowing chart
see the meanings of the numbers now, I know them in my heart.

I see a feather on the ground and another by the door.
I saw one floating on the breeze last week as I sat upon the shore.
I kept a tally of these beauties but they just kept coming, more and more
now I keep them lovingly just inside my door.

I saw a penny on the floor left it there to rest,
didn’t think a moment more it could be of in-terest.
I saw another and a couple more as I wandered to the west,
now I know to keep those coins, lovingly with the rest.

I needed answers for my thoughts but knew not what to ask.
The things I know I have to learn were not taught inside a class.
I have to listen, see and know, as we have done in the past.
The universe shows me now the things I need to ask.

Karen Hayward ©2016


Masquerade even in death.

A constant stream of well wishing’s of death

empty thoughts are all they have left.

They speak of your greatness your sorrow and pain

of the drink that you sunk to keep yourself sane.

Few of us know the truth in that bottle

the reason your skin is blackened with mottle.

Biting my tongue I turn away

fearsome of what it is I might say.

There’s a story to have, a story to tell,

a story that damns you to the pits of hell.


Karen Hayward ©2016


Bleed me monthly razor blade boy.

A battle ground of death

bleeding scars resurected

as oxygen is starved

to the contracting walls.

The unforgotten rip in

reality, a monthly machete

led torturous reminder.

Razor blades cut long and deep,

As blood spills begins to seep. 

An implosion upon implosion

Of this wondrous female motion. 

And people wonder what the fuck

is the commotion!! 

Let me sit here upon the floor as

death takes me and I feel no more. 

Or at least until the pain killers 

Kick in and the constant drumming 

Of razor blade boy slows to a rhymythic

Numbness as I forge war upon biology.

*This poem is about menstruation.

Karen Hayward. ©2016.

To say otherwise is to lie.

I loved you.

To say otherwise would be a lie,

a god damn fucking lie.

Your very essence filled my veins,

you were the flame behind my eyes,

the fear in my beating heart

the sweat that pooled in my palms.

I loved you.

To say otherwise would be a lie,

a god damn fucking lie.

I had to love you.

I had to surrender to the hunger in my heart.

I had a weakness for the flavour of love.

Battered bruised and torn apart

An instinctual need to taste the crimson flow of blood,

the faint pulsating beat still fresh,

quenching my thirst for another day

I loved you.

To say otherwise would be a lie,

a god damn fucking lie.

Hazy memories coupled with perfect moments

that I keep locked in a jar, pickled

with the remnants of a lambs heart

evidence that I loved you,

each of you.

Yes. I loved each of you and to say

otherwise would be the lie.

A love so perfect, untainted by hate

a moments recognition between two souls,

darkness that seeped into our finger tips

passion that filled our kisses,

I loved you.

To say otherwise would be a lie.

I love you, I still love you, I will always love you

and is this so wrong? Is it so wrong to love, to be in love?

An indefinable term that is constantly squashed

into a patriarchal society, glossed over with

feminine charms. It didn’t last and so by definition

of society it was never love.

Society does not rule my soul.

Escaped musings from the thought tank

veiled in black lace and draped in pure white silk.

A plotted timeline of maturational evolution.

You were the blood soaked sheets

and I was the falling tears of a shredded heart.

I loved you, this was never a lie.

The vibrational beat of passion that tingled beneath

my pallid face, drawn out eyes that stared into

the abyss of darkness and begged on bloodied


I loved you.

Love is no fairytale, no white knights, no glass slippers,

no virgin dick with an instinctual knowledge

of the female soul.

Love is real and cannot be contained

inside a box of simplistic purity.

It is a force to be to adored, devoured

en-captured. The fluidity of lust.

Oh what a joy it is to drink in that fluid

of passion, to feel it energise the soul

as it becomes you, threatens to drown you.

As its fires burn in carnal lucidity.

I loved you.

To say otherwise would be a lie,

a god damn lie.

Karen Hayward ©2016