Category Archives: Writing

Poetry from the Torture of Loving a Narcissist

These are from my,
Poetry Collections
The Worst of It

The worst of it was his disbelief in my love
In how I truly felt about him
The conflagration of him; the intensity of my desire to be his.
How he affected me, changed who I was, and what I believe
I adored him and wanted to give him everything

He laughed at my passion and my offerings
His indifference to my flailing ruined what was left of a fragile soul
He misinterpreted, misconstrued, and misunderstood everything I was
It felt as if he did so purposely
He ignored my only talent and wouldn’t read my words

I am still a shattered mess, only aching to be understood
Something about his rejection rendered me invisible
Even to myself.
Now, he’s attempted to delete our tombstone inscription
As if a few scratches could expunge my grief at the loss

As if I could ever un-feel what I felt
As if I could reverse the affects of him on my heart
The worst of it is he banished me instantly from his
Moving along as if I were roadkill to be forgotten
Whew, that was a close one, glad he survived
as I drag my own carcass away from the crash site.

The worst of it is how my love for him, awakened me
Changed me, made me want to be more than I’ve ever been
A better me, because of him.
He didn’t feel any of that impact, not even a jostle of recognition
He irreparably wounded me to a core I didn’t know I possessed,
and the worst of it was he didn’t care a lick.

The worst of it is the weight of what I now carry
The baggage of un-spent adoration, love, lust and submission.
How can I ever give this to another?
Another will never be him.
But of course, he isn’t really him either.

Irretrievable, irrevocable, irreversible
Whatever toxin he infused, is a fatal affliction
I’ve come to decide I will not recover
I will continue as a shell of empty grief and sorrow
But who I once was, is gone, lost, destroyed

I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m still standing
The placebos I feed the world
I know the truth, but I’m the only one who cares
He doesn’t, never did, lied his way through my devotion
He didn’t care if it was a love note, or a suicide note,
it was simply something to feed on.

I thought the sex was love, and for me, it was more like worship,
But I think for him, not so much.
He loved his prowess and stamina.
He loved his power.
He adored himself as I writhed under his weight.

It’s strange how I still love him.
The façade he presented in the beginning.
The conglomeration of parts I’d always dreamt of.
He is a master of the craft, a fisher of emotions, an infantile monster of extraction and extortion.
He baited the net perfectly, and then laughed at his prey’s declaration of love.
An Oscar worthy performance as a vampire of emotions.

If my love was a lie, I’d be over him by now.
I’d have moved past this brokenness and mourning.
For me, it was so much more than lust, and chemicals.
My soul fell, and is still screaming through the abyss
My heart is obliterated and now I’m a nothing.

He interrupted my aura, and I was instantly changed. It was an irretrievable moment and I am still suffering through the sorrow. It weeps through my skin and strangles me with longing for a man who doesn’t exist. It’s like a straight jacket of locks and chains; a noose of emotional torture; this ache of grief that renders me fetal as I hold myself together.
I thought a year would at least provide a scar I could live with, but instead it rips free and bleeds on a regular basis. He laughed at my love, thought me a fraud and a liar. Of course, his disordered mind hadn’t a clue of love or it’s power.
It was naïve of me to think the firestorm I experienced, would translate to his awakening. My own metamorphoses was irrevocably enacted the moment I saw him, but for him to want me with the same passion, was a much too delusional fantasy on my part.
He set the trap well, offering me bait of my ideal. I saw his cage of writhing demons and yet still, still, I loved him with a ferociousness I will never understand.
Even still, a year past and I am swept away by the interruption of a continuous thought of him.
He tried to scratch away the inscription on our tombstone, but no matter, it is still him who haunts the halls of my heart and renders me useless to this world.


I’m working on a new book of poetry, prose and introspective articles/memoir.

I don’t know a release date yet, but I have my cover art.
Here are some samples of the poetry:

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Why this name?

I’ve answered this question a few times. Yes, I know, my name is odd; to have chosen such a name is a curiosity. In a world where the current operating system dictates we only spew positivity, and are not allowed to share our pain and suffering without being preached at about living in the half-full, I chose a name that would make most cringe. With it, brings a raft of implications, and even though the spelling is creative, it is still a label of anguish.

Back in 2008 I was almost thriving. My horse training and teaching business had weathered much, and I was finally making a living. It was a hard life, and a lot of work, but I’d been at it for nearly 25 years, and finally my passion surrounding horses, was paying for itself. I had a barn full of mine, and client’s horses and enough drive-in lessons and training that I finally felt as if I’d made it.

I live rural, in a stunning part of California. The summers are cool and rarely reach 80F. The winters are temperate and rainy and it never snows! I leased a horse facility near me with 10 stalls and an indoor arena. I needed the indoor for our winters. It was across the road from miles of trails and just a short haul up to the show grounds for variety. I also live only 5 minutes away.

Even though I’d been there for 20 years, and I thought the owner and I had a solid foundation between us, she changed her mind, and restructured the lease to the point I couldn’t afford to stay. There was no other place for me to go. I explored every option at my disposal, even moving from the only place I adored living and where all my family and husband also dwelt. I would have moved, and taken all my horses with me, if I could have found something.

In the end, I was forced to give everything up, even all my horses. Even my 13YO superhorse who I’d had since he was a yearling. All of it, gone with no hope of retrieval. I collapsed and had a massive breakdown. I’d lost everything, including my cemented adult identity. I tried to commit suicide, and obviously failed at that too.

At this point in time, I wasn’t a writer or author. I’d always told stories, and written for myself, but in an extremely limited capacity. I also didn’t have the academic learning to back up any sort of writing aspirations. But I had to do something and I couldn’t afford a therapist, so I began putting it all into words.

I hurt. I ached. Everything in me was in severe pain, and it wasn’t physical, it all stemmed from the emotional. I was in a mire of depression so deep I saw no way out. Even though my faith game is incredibly strong, and I was begging for illumination, no answers were presented. So, I began a story about a lost soul who needed a miraculous rescue. Her name was, Payne.

Before this episode, I’d never had much depression, and I’d dealt with all my physical pain easily. I had multiple injuries over the years, and nothing slowed me down, but now, the inner anguish was radiating, and my entire life, my body, my emotions, my soul, all of me was in utter, and devastating pain. My outlook on life wasn’t much different. I still wished for death every day for well over a year. But I wrote, and I wrote, and I kept writing her story. In the beginning, she was me, but as it evolved, I became her, and together we began to heal.

I adopted her name as it became clear I had a book on my hands and I needed a pen name. I was no longer the horseygirl of my past and I’d severed all connections to that old life. I had only 2 people who cared if I lived or died, and they are the only 2 who still use my birthname. Now days, 7 years later, I am known as Payne.

Much has happened and much has changed in my life and inside me over the past 7 years. Oddly, I’m still not that excited about being alive and I often pray to be taken at the earliest possible age. I’m not suicidal, I’m just tired. This system and this program doesn’t work for me. Nothing about how other humans operate, works for who I’ve evolved into.

I’m persevering however, and my life is very full. I’m embracing the distraction of, ‘busy’, and spout the company line whenever I can muster a fake smile. I’m no longer in pain, but my soul is still alone and my soul is still, Payne.

My blog feed goes back to the beginning of my journey as an author and poet. You can find a link to it on my webpage, along with millions of words and multiple pages of my personal reflections and writings, here:

All my fictional work is up in novel form, in both print and digital on Amazon, here: Payne Hawthorne on Amazon

I wrote a lot for 5 years and I learned as I went. I have 12 novels to my name now, all of which I am quite proud of. All but one is fiction. Just this year, 2017, I released my first memoir which included two poetry collections. This title is autobiographical and about a young man I feel deeply in love with, but we couldn’t make it work.
Look for it here: Peeing with the door open; Not a love story

That first book I wrote, where Payne is the heroine, is now a series and still my favorite. Someday I’ll manage to finish the third book in that series. Look for it under the name;
AdventuresinPayne Remnant, (book I)
AdventuresinPayne Discovery, (book II)

Back in late 2015 I was forced to stop writing and start earning a living again. My time was up, and nothing was bringing in enough, (any), money to live on. I’d given myself 5 years to show I could at least generate a grand a month from my writing. That didn’t happen, even though I produced so many great titles. I tried a go-fund-me page, thinking all the ‘fans’ I’d gathered and the ones who’d received all my work for free, might donate to my cause so I could finish some of my series.

Instead of them rallying behind me, I was maligned for asking. I was told I should work, and still write, and nobody would help me. I ended up with the nick-name, “Funder-Cunt.” This story has more to it, but that was it for me. I already didn’t have much fight left, so I walked away, and I stopped writing novels.

Since then, I’ve written a lot of poetry and short stuff. I also wrote my memoir when that love affair ended and my heart was once again shattered.

Now days, everything I write is all real, all non-fiction, all my inner truth, and all of it is heartbreakingly ME, Payne.

I’ve risen out of my pile of ashes a few times. Now days, I find comfort in being alone and living as a servant to others. I don’t have much of a life apart from my work, and even now, finding time to write anything of meaning is not very high on my list. What I do write, I post for free on all my social media sites, and for sure on my Pinterest boards or my website.

It means a lot to me to hear if my words resonate with others. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it comforts my lonely heart. Thank you for reading me.


New Release

I have a new release and a new blog post

Check out the blog post here: The Theme is Changing

My newest release is awesome! I’m extremely proud of this second installment in the Fire Clothed in Skin Saga: Redemption of Fire

Redemption of Fire

Thank you to Bellissima’s Wicked Graphics for a fabulous cover and editing help.  Check her out her page on Facebook.
Also a huge thanks to Julie Anne Addicott the incredible poetess who is helping me with an official House  of Payne Publishing Website. I’m helping her get her first novel finished. This title will be available on Kindle/Amazon before the summer of 2016 so keep an eye out for: Demon Soul, Angel Heart.

Our new Website:

House of Payne Publishing

Semifinalist in Poetry Contest

I entered the below poem at and was just notified I’m a semifinalist.  It also secures this poem and a small author bio in their upcoming print anthology collection of amateur poets.

Pretty exiting for me since I’ve never entered any of my writings in contests. My new mission is to enter more of my stuff, more often and on different platforms with the end goal of getting my name better known as an author and poetess of emotional, soul searching, and love focused writings.

So here it is:

The Devastation of Love, (revised edition to fit their submission guidelines).
I'm forever hopeful to be stolen by it, swept up and falling into...
I will cease to be a singular soul, alone. 
I will join with another, and become someone entirely new. 
It’s messy and often ugly. 
It’s devastating.
Perhaps it’s simply my love of playing with fire?
It’s a shattering experience. 
Life altering, soul modifying. 
It’s anarchy. Destruction. 
Demolish what was there, rebuild stronger joined as two. 
It’s crushing, humbling and overwhelming. 
It’s embarrassing, pathetic, and shameless. 
I must surrender to the tidal pull of another. 
I must submit to the power of two combined. 
I am no longer me. I am now, us and we. 
I hand myself over to the other. 
It’s a before and after episode. 
It’s a demon who burgles my deepest secrets. 
It’s a cresting wave, pummeling me into the depths. 
It’s a deity demanding I bow and worship at it’s alter. 
Scrape and beg, plead and surrender. Succumb. 
It sweeps me up into a hurricane of destruction. 
It blows through me without a care for who I once was. 
No matter my preparations, 
or how long I've sought this elusive beast. 
No matter…
It will destroy me, and still I seek nothing else.

Original Prose which inspired this shortened version:

The Devastation of Love Original Prose/poetry by Payne Hawthorne
The Devastation of Love
Original Prose/poetry by Payne Hawthorne

Seeking Patronage

I recently attended a two day workshop from a well known published author. She also has numerous degrees in writing and literature along with multiple awards. After reading my work, she told me, "Stop giving away your writing. You're way too good of a storyteller to not be getting paid. You need to focus and do this fulltime!"
She suggested I start a Kickstarter, Go-fund-me, Patreon or Crowdfunding account. I told her I'd not had much of a warm welcome with my Go-fund-me campaign but I still had this Patreon page, even though I'm yet to receive one pledge. Her suggestion was that I no longer post my erotica short stories for free on my webpage, but rather only give them to my patrons.
So, I guess I'll try this for now and see how it goes. From here on out, I'll continue to write my short erotic pieces, but will only disseminate them to those who are pledging.
You have no idea how much it would help me if enough of you, drank one less $5.00 coffee a month, and instead pledged that amount to my writing endeavors.
For your pledge of $5.00 or more, I will guarantee at least one short erotic piece a month, (over 1000 words). For any larger pledges I'll write two or more pieces a month and will personally email these to all who've pledged.

I have over a thousand registered users on this site, although I don't know how to access you, or know if anyone is enjoying my work. Since I left Facebook, I no longer get comments, (good or bad), about my writing. It would help me to know others are enjoying, or at the very least, reading what I post. I often feel as if all this is nothing more than a futile endeavor. So please at least speak up or offer me some help as too how I can better reach my audience. (I am struggling with the technology and maintaining my own webpage as well...anyone willing to help me? I'd consider it a form of contribution. 

Email me? Payne Hawthorne at 

Payne Hawthorne on Patreon


A few new poems from me. I also post all of my new shorter writings on my Pinterest Page here: MY WRITINGS

Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Skid Along Perceptions Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Fissures and Cracks
He stole away my soul.
Burgled it when I wasn’t watching.
He now holds it captive. 
I thought I’d fortified.
He saw through my façade.
He saw my brokenness; the cracks and fissures. 
It was an easy heist, 
Too easy.
I must shore up these leaks.
Can I go on without it?
He is a kind caretaker.
Perhaps it’s best to leave it there, where it’s safe. 
I have no need for it.
I had reserved it for him.
He never touched me,
He only caressed my spirit,
He fed my thoughts,
He hydrated my heart,
The heist was soundless.
 He only stole my soul…
Stole my Soul Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Stole my Soul
Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Cellulite Around My Soul
There are barriers around my heart; my soul feels imprisoned. I don’t think it’s steel, or brick and mortar; no, I think it’s more like soft, conforming, comforting layers of fat. It enables me to be a tad more resilient and allows my heart to bounce without bruising. 
It’s still a covering, a barricade, an obstacle for someone to wade through if they want to get to the very heart of me, but it’s navigable, not impossible.
These little bumps of physical terrain only show because it’s nothing more than where our skin is softest. Our most vulnerable; thinnest protective coating. We all have it, but it doesn’t show on most. At least not on the ones with thick, impenetrable hides. 
I think I have cellulite on my soul. Little fatty deposits, like bubble wrap protection. If not for the fat, I’d be too transparent. If not for the fat, my soul would be exposed for all to damage. What with body image these days, I try and cover up as much as possible. Something tight and thick. Hold it all together so none are the wiser. 
You know what removes cellulite? Attention. Massages. Exercise. Good food and happiness. My soul needs all of these things. It is starved, and covered in fat. Useless, meaningless, nothing but fat. It’s suffocating behind this barrier of protection. Dying from invisibility. Covered in Cellulite.
Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Cellulite Soul Poetry by Payne Hawthorne


Ready & Ripe

I’m not smooth. I’m not young. 
I’m not polished and new.
I still sparkle –on occasion. 
I have scars, bumps, lumps, creases and divots. 
I often appear as if I slept on my soul while it was still wet. 
I’m not intellectual or academic, but I’m smart as a whip. 
I love too hard, and then not at all.
I’m indifferent, but passionate. 
I crave everything and nothing.
I’m ancient and childlike.
I’m experienced, wise and ready.
Ready & Ripe Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Ready & Ripe
Poetry by Payne Hawthorne



I evict you time and again.
 You tenaciously return.
Powerful Intruder,
 Plundering my every thought.
You’re an invading force—
You steal my vision. 
 My heart prompts with loud thumps.
You settle there,
 Holding my soul, 
With a roguish sending.
 As if you’re fully aware—
You inhabit me.
Inhabit Me. Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Inhabit Me.
Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
I’m trying to find freedom; extricate myself from what was once, us.
I need to be free of you, of the weight of you, the possibility of you.
I thought I could, but now, more than ever, I feel bound to you, by you; the possibility of you.
The thought of freedom now chokes me with the ghost of your hand. 
I’m in a dark place, chained and restrained; you left me here alone. I cannot escape.
The harder I try, the tighter the binds.
I can’t breathe; drowning, disappearing, fading, vanishing, withering. 
You’re heavy on me, in me, with me.
Extricate Poetry by Payne Hawthorne
Poetry by
Payne Hawthorne

Christmas Morning (Poetry)

Christmas morning

The tall cliffs protect as the ocean beats and flings itself haphazardly against the rocks below. The pillows of fluffy white deceive and the tendrils of rainbows forecast the promise of a sunny day. The veil of sea mist paints the air with tiny frolicking faeries.

I stand tall and still, and soak in the majesty. The mist soaks my cheeks and bleeds into my hair. The roar of the sea quiets my soul.

Sometimes the silence inside awakens when you are most still.

The air is icy and bites. It feels good to be touched. My skin rejoices as my heart is filled. Don’t move, don’t allow distractions. Soak. Absorb. Marinate. Remain still.

All around you is anarchy; disobedient water obeys no master. Headlands jut as time erodes. One cannot contain forever. Crevices give way as water cleanses.

My heart beats and my lungs billow behind my ribs. I remain quiet. My pulse quickens as waves roll and surge. The ground beneath my feet vibrates as water insists, attempting to claim me, reaching ever skyward.

I close my eyes and listen. Amidst the chaos, there is intense peace, a belonging to something deeper and bigger. The lighthouse winks as I once again allow sight to overtake. The rainbow tendrils dance like ribbons of butterfly wings.

~Payne Hawthorne

Mark Scheffer Photography
Mark Scheffer Photography

Photography by: Mark Scheffer