Deviance in my sight.

Fake it. Fake it until you feel it,

but how can I feel anything when

all I ever see in those deep eyes is

emptiness. An object of requirement

tossed aside once used. One, two three,

tweak, one, two, three, tweak. All that

matters is you hit your peek.

I’m an unexplored discarded vessel

that you perceive as a genie in the lamp,

two rubs, pink smoke fills the room

and your wish is my command.

Fake it, fake it until you believe it.

I am, I am, I am, I am!

I am all that you created for

this i’m sure you are elated.

My reflection is without image, my eye’s

without spirit, my body without

passion, tweak it, tweak it

the latest line in loves new fashion.

I am, I am, I am. Fake it, fake it until

you believe it.

See past the indiscressant

behaviour, look through the emptiness,

search for the reflection, discard the

golden bands of possession and find it.

Before a lack of passion devours your

soul for eternity.

Worthiness.

Believe it.

 

Karen Hayward © 2015

 

 

 

More.

 

If I wandered past you

naked would you see through

me and continue to stare

at the TV? If I laid upon the

bed and stared adoringly at

the ceiling, would you at

least give me a little feeling?

Will you ever see me as more

than an end, will our passion

always e, pretend.

 

Karen Hayward © 2015.

 

More than a switch.

I like it when passion over runs.

When fingers fumble at fabric

and kisses are magnetically pulled

to the skin. When eye’s meet in a

knowing glance and nakedness

is purely chance. I like to feel the

need in your words to see the desire

in your body. I like to feel the wanting

against my skin

as we go

exploring in.

Karen Hayward ©2015.

Beneath the cloak.

The observer,
watches. Listens
as words are spoken
and internalises the
empty echo, becoming
Finally
a shadow.
Unseen, unheard beneath
a cloak of invisibility.

Peering out from the
dark cold empty space,
the world appears to have
changed.

A brave act to visualise a soul onto the page,
to transform the lustrous rage,
harder still, to step out and engage,
to gratefully accept and happily take.

To be seen when all darkness has consumed,
Living has been resumed,
if I can let go and let myself bloom
In the privacy of a neutral room.

Karen Hayward ©2015.

If like were grey scale.

If eye’s were black and life were blue,
if every question the answer were knew, 
If every act we looked at anew,
then every response we know could be true.

Karen Hayward 2015 ©

Tardis dust.

The peculiarity of sensuality
that wanders freely in my space,
trailing magnetically a shadowed trace.
Curiosity magnified by the specifics of mind, electronically relieved by the wonders I find.

Karen Hayward ©2015.  

To be.

My heart has known love a thousand times over,

three of those times my soul has screamed at me in

recognition. Three times, three soul mates to date.

In a world that tells us that true love happens only once,

I have experienced it three times and perhaps many more.

Three times each one so very unique,

each one made me weak.

There will be more,

of that I am sure.

Each one will ignite the fire that has forgotten

how to burn inside of me. The flames will

flicker through my veins, licking my soul, waking

my long forgotten spirit.

Till finally in a crowded room I will see you,

the one that haunts m dreams,

the voice I hear whisper, as I scream.

The soft touch on my arm when I feel fear,

the deep knowledge that you are near.

Then I will feel what it is to be,

not to have,

to want

to

need,

but to simply be.

Tears of a fallen angel.

Tears fall as the break rips through me,
a steady flow of constant pain
As my world crumbles
And the cage falls,
bars of weakness hold me down,
mistakes, i shouldn’t i have made
worn down by the selfish world,
you caught my fall,
Shackled me to the iron bars
And you smile at your prize catch
As i lay broken on the floor,
wings clipped and damp
as i live each day to survive,
To a sky of freedom blue.
Tears fall when I stop to look,
I went so far,
You pulled me back
so far
tears drop for I am the fallen.

I’m ready to play your game.

Been thinking today…
That
It
Is
My, fucking, turn to play.
My turn to sleep
And block out the noise,
To walk around the fucking toys.
To drink away my demons,
for fucked up reasons.
My turn to play the cunt,
To sit and snore, and grunt,
Each time you see, you saw
As i walked across the messy floor,
my turn to ignore;
my life responsibilities,
My turn to act all silly,
To sing to dance,
To sit in an ignorant trance.
So open your eyes,
don’t fucking cry,
Your tears are fake,
An empty lake.
Today is my day to reign,
You’ve no one to blame,
But your fucked up reflection,
In your smashed up collection
Of angry stares,
And knowing glares.
I’m stepping out from the shadows,
from your mirrored glow.
I just wanted for you to know.

Strings, would I ever grab an end.

With dry clumpy mud between my fingers,
with grass stains on my knees,
With the ebbing tide at my toes,
I sometimes wonder.

Beneath the changing moon,
The burning sun that sets in definitive glory,
amongst the howling winds,
And the clashing clouds,
When pleasure is achieved.

On the soft pillow,
Beneath my cover,
In the cleansing bath,
What happens,
When all is done.

When pleasure spent,
will I relent?
when we lay back
our bodies done
in a moments fun,
Will I stay?