Tag Archives: Soul Searching

Poetry from the Torture of Loving a Narcissist

These are from my,
RAW IN THE MIDDLE
LOVING A NARCISSIST
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.

RAW IN THE MIDDLE

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:

___________________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

She says she’s a Horseygirl…

SHE SAYS SHE’S A HORSEYGIRL, AS IF THAT EXPLAINED EVERYTHING
There is always dust on her jeans
Her hair is like a torch of satin flames; honey and fire, sunlight and copper; spilling from a ball cap.
She wears sunglasses, even in the dead of winter. 
She’s unbelievably strong and agile. 
She’s empathic at a level others never comprehend
She doesn’t think she’s graceful, but she is.
She dances when nobody is watching.
She towers over most women, and looks most men directly in their eyes.
She is a carnivore, and will admit to eating things with faces, but then smiles deviously.
She can back up a thirty-foot bumper-pull horse trailer into the tightest spot—in one try.
She can load 3 horses, by herself, just by pointing.
She can back up a 2000-pound animal with a look.
She knows what knot, to know.
She’s open, and ugly-honest about everything.
The opinions of others, are none of her concern.
She is precise and clear with her communication.
She never makes assumptions. 
The word, ‘wrong’, does not exist in her vocabulary. 
She is calm and balanced, yet decisive and direct. 
You always know where you stand, and how she feels.
She loves adventures and getting lost in the woods. 
She believes balance is key to everything.
Her faith game is off the charts.
She’s incredibly passionate, sexual, alive and open. 
She claims the best drug on the planet is a gallop down the beach,
Or sex with, him 
I love to watch her move amongst the beasts she guides. 
When she’s atop, no other can compare with her erotic beauty. 
She is a centaur of elegant, fluid exquisiteness. 
A part of the dance in a way others envy.
Someone broke her trust, and she no longer believes love can conquer all. 
She never talks about it, and refuses to linger too long in the past, or play victim to anyone, but he broke her heart and she never truly recovered. 
I see it in her eyes when she thinks she’s hiding behind that slaying smile.
She says, she’s a horsey girl, as if that explained everything.

Semifinalist in Poetry Contest

I entered the below poem at poetrynation.com 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

Poetry

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,
 Physically.
He only caressed my spirit,
 Distracting.
He fed my thoughts,
 Diverting.
He hydrated my heart,
 Pursuing.
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

 

INHABIT ME

I evict you time and again.
 You tenaciously return.
Powerful Intruder,
 Plundering my every thought.
You’re an invading force—
 Occupying.
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
Extricate
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
Extricate
Poetry by
Payne Hawthorne

Revealed from Stone

 

carvedfrommarble

REVEALED FROM STONE

Yet Another Year.

It’s been an odd year. Few ups, few downs, nothing new really. Apart from the broken, (severely broken), ankle, which is healing, there is nothing momentous about the year I just burned away like it was only a few weeks. Yet, here I sit, again wondering about the year behind me and my growth during that time.

To understand me better in the now, I must digress and tell you a bit about who I am, and what got me to here. I’ve spent my entire life, from as far back as my earliest memories, wanting, craving, searching and wishing for—love. And as a sidebar, I’ve found little bits and pieces of—love—throughout my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve looked for and attracted it everywhere I can find it. Mostly I’ve sated my craving to love, through my animals, (motherly), since I never had kids, (I didn’t want to be weighed down with children when my great love appeared).

What’s eluded me, and what I will go to my grave aching to feel, is that all encompassing—bordering on insane—kind of love where I can devote and submit all of myself to one other person. Only one! To belong to them and them to me—yes I used that word—BELONG! I know what you’re thinking—don’t categorize me as a bunny boiler just yet.  What I want—but refuse to fabricate or force—is to find and be permitted to dwell with the one meant for me.  The one who wishes to consume all of me—I’m willing to give that much—I’m capable of giving that much!

Funny thing is, in my search for—the one—I’ve tried on a few; more than a few. None were quite right. I even married, and we are great/best friends to this day, but even he will admit we never had that kind of love.  I’ve seen others find that kind of love—first hand! It wasn’t always a Disney movie either—lots of hard times and angst along the way—but the love, the relationship and the other person were always the most important ingredients. That is what I want! (Please note I used WANT, not, NEED. I’ve made it this far and I can finish just fine without.)

When I was seven I walked forward at a tent revival and gave my heart to Jesus. I was born again before I was ten. I reconfirmed that faith again in my twenties when I was baptized in the ocean by a traveling preacher. I walked forward again in my mid-thirties at a huge convention with Joyce Meyers. My faith has been tested, but I’ve never once faltered in my devotion and submission to, THEIR, will in my life. Here is where I must clarify that I am not a church going, pew sitting–Christian. In fact, I’ve only been in a church a handful of times.

I am my own minister, believer, and the most spiritual Jesus freak you will ever meet.  Although, if you meet me, you would never know this fact because I don’t talk about it. The reason I don’t talk about it has nothing to do with shame or embarrassment. Neither of which I hardly ever feel—in any situation. The reason I don’t talk about it is because most of the people I am around, vehemently hate Christians. The reason they do, is because other Christians fervently judge, shame and then try and save the ones that are a bit different—like me—I don’t need to be turned or saved from their perception of my sinful ways.

I also have no agenda to save another’s soul. It’s theirs, not mine, and I don’t care if they go to the same heaven I do, or not. I guess that is where I diverge from the flock of do-gooders. There are very few do-good-anything, bones in my body.  This life is for me to learn whatever the fuck I need to learn, and move on. Get out of the cyclical, program ruled, breeders and workers, universal mindset of this planet—I call them the, Blue Pills. I want out and off. My goal this lifetime is to fastrack this process and get these lessons learned post haste.

Of course, by declaring that agenda to my helpers and angels, I’ve set out the gauntlet, and it isn’t always pretty rainbows and blessings.  Often it is painfully learned lessons, or numerous heartbreaks that never quite heal. I struggle with coldness, numbness, apathy, dullness, depression and cynicism. None of which would be welcomed in the heaven I seek to enter. Sometimes the breaking and wrenching needed for me to feel anything deeply, is exactly—breaking and wrenching—and it fucking hurts throughout my mind, body and soul.

It often feels as if who I am—who I am becoming—is being revealed and carved from solid marble. I need to soften. I need to have less brace. I need to be open and grateful.

So, back to this quest to find love. Which, sadly I’ve about given up on. At least to the capacity I’d once hoped for. Maybe it wasn’t meant for me this lifetime, or maybe I screwed up somewhere along the line and totally blew it.  But it’s never been gifted to me. I do have some wonderful people in my life at present, one man I adore, but only from afar, and I’ve come to realize it might be too late for us.  By my age everyone has lives, families, kids, jobs, careers, duties. They are entrenched in their life. I am the odd one out. I am free at present—free, but alone. So, whatever I get, I get it in a limited capacity, and that will not change. I often wonder if I should settle, and be happy for part of the dream, or do I dare still hope for that one elusive person to whom I could submit to as fully as I have to Jesus?

Since I write about, and am drawn to the world of Dominants and Submissives—BDSM—and I am a bit of a masochist who craves her dominant, I’ve done quite a bit of research. And I’ve learned a lot about myself in the process.  Turns out, what I crave isn’t unheard of in that world, and often, it is more the norm. It’s an obsessive kind of love that I suppose some would call co-dependent.  For me, it is finding someone worthy of not only my complete and utter devotion, but also my submission and ache to be the only one to sate their every crave and need. I would go so far as to say I wished to be their every crave and need!

So far, none are worthy. I have a big personality, and most would never think of me as a, quote-unquote, submissive. I’m a bit of an oddity—can I call myself an, Alpha-submissive? The ineffable sub? Even throughout my long years as a horse trainer and professional, I was always Alpha mare. Always! I’ve often thought that a man who was—more—than me, probably didn’t exist. Add in the fact–I am a woman of God–and I desire to belong to a man of God? Well that list just got even smaller. Perhaps non-existent. But, in all reality, I’ve practiced submitting to God and His will in my life—my entire life.

I suppose you could say–I’ve become my own dominant.

On the bright side, this never filled ache of mine is great fodder for my work and my stories.  I write from a place of fantasy and hope that maybe, just maybe, HE does exist and, maybe, just maybe, HE might find me. I’m not looking.  I’ve actually always thought—HE would find me. HE would know I was meant to belong to him, and in turn, HE would make sure I knew.  He would gather me, woe me, and eventually OWN me—mind, heart, and body. Fantasy? Sure, why not. But don’t forget I believe in a God and His son, (my soul is theirs already), and that whole bible malarkey thing too.  I also believe in multiple lifetimes and honestly, I seriously doubt—Every. Single. Lifetime. We are allowed to find the kind of bliss I’ve always sought. This just might be an off-lifetime for me.

Patience grasshoppah—paint the fence—learn your lessons. The next chapter will come soon enough.

I’m an oddity to be sure. My goal in my writing is to let this foreign, alien, love-driven, will-surrendering mindset, filter through into my work. I’m going to use every moment of angst and longing to fuel my words and drive my characters. Maybe this is supposed to be my great love? The writing? It saved me during my darkest hour when I felt truly anointed to write my first book—AdventuresinPayne. (It’s being edited right this second by a professional and will be re-released in the spring of 2015). I do know I have a talent for it, and I am trying my darndest to impart the messages I’ve learned, or am being taught as I move along. Trying to tell the story the way they’ve told me. In writing this, I realize I already belong to a benevolent Father who’s taken great care of me.  I’ve never worked in the traditional sense, but everything I’ve ever wanted, (apart from that elusive relationship), has been provided to me.

The way I see it, THEY, want us to have overflowing desires. Without those, how can they, teach, train and mold us into the kind of evolved souls who would welcome more evolved souls into a paradise universe? Fear of hell isn’t going to work. Let’s be honest, hell is all around us, in us, part of us. We can’t do much worse than this treadmill existence. But! And there is a big BUTT! The promise of everlasting peace, contentment, saturation and satisfaction—not to mention unending LOVE and protection! All of those things will surely motivate me.

So, going into yet another year, think about your own spirit’s evolution. Don’t get sidetracked with the myriad distractions of life and family and others. Duties will always be there and nobody else’s path is as important as your own.  Change destructive patterns as quickly as you see them. If you don’t, if you linger and wallow, you will only stay here, there, in those patterns. If you do what you’ve always done—you will always get the same results.

I for one, want MORE and BETTER and all the rewards that I know come from being self-aware and on this path of learning and soul-improvement. It’s simple, just not easy. And most of all, there is no pride over here. Give in, give up the illusion you have a say in any of this—your will—your rightness—your marble hard veneer–soften your heart. When you do, I swear it is a miraculous awakening.

Remember–Relax, nothing is under control!

That at least is what I am doing on a minute by minute basis, and I like the person I am becoming. Onto 2015 people! Are you with me?

~Payne