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Category: poetry

Another kick…

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Fuck!
Another kick and I’m down
Words slur,
days blur,
tomorrow’s out to kill me
a cockled feign,
your devils tongue
Again you scream
I’m done I’m done.
But silence never comes
freedom never follows
oh look how captivity became you
As our love lost all of its tomorrow’s.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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To scrape away tainted dust

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What I wouldn’t give to erase you from the very core of me, to scrape away all elements that made you, to wipe clean the slate of pain with the same ease you dance across the planes. Reality, is a perception you once said, you carved me one designed to kill the last embers of my hope, a man made design you redrew the outlines to create the perfect fall and I stupidly fell. So much awareness and yet so blind, you took the graphite pencil and rewrote reality into a morbid fantasy on speckles of forgotten words… I told you, I told you as your tongue stumbled, and there within the letters I find it again… But alas, it is too late for me too rectify and prove my innocence, the words form the curve of karma, the consequence was never mine to have… the damage is done.

KH©2018

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Splinters of winters kisses

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I fear we have

fragmented

beyond repair,

too many

splinters,

shards,

blood and pain

let us become

lost now

on springs

breeze,

a distant wisp of

memory on

winters frost.

 

Karen Hayward ©2018

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To fall… 

I wanted to believe, oh how I wanted too.

I ignored the signs, the hidden titles, 

Words weaved on a vengeful tongue

pretended that I did not see

Wanted the fairytale to be… 

But not even true loves kiss

Can break this curse on me… 

As the devil calls back this soul

that was never meant to be free. 
Karen Hayward

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. 

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

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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
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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

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Darkest Light.

 

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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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