Narcicist .

I recently had the pleasure of sharing private messages with a narcissist. By pleasure I mean soul destroying energy draining horror. I wouldn’t normally choose to communicate with such a person but in this case my eye was off the ball and before I knew it he was under my skin. I blocked him. Yet his presence has continued to annoy me. The fault lays entirely with me my intuition screamed at me that there was something wrong about this person, but this clashed with my beliefs that we shouldn’t judge a person on first impressions….what the fucking hell was I thinking!  I communicated with him for just under a week and in that time he shared anger, gas lighting, manipulation, obsessiveness, a desire for power and control as well as an ability to wield that power and control. All of these emotions convert to energy as an empath I pick up on that frequency of energy….the problem with this is that most other people can’t , so his public posts just appeared to them as harmless, quirky as us writers are, but harmless. Of course in his pm’s he was able to explore my vulnerabilities with more vigour, but it was also there in his public posts and replies. I should have been able to shake him off but the reality is his clear disrespect toward me has highlighted my vulnerabilities and taken me into a place of questioning. Amazing how quickly a narcissist can get in and fuck with your head. In short he disrespected me as a female writer, us females are already fighting enough stereotypical crap as it is we don’t need individuals to play along too. He did this in a number of ways, covertly communicating in such a way that he expected me to not notice. I did notice. The vulnerabilities he highlighted have been dominating my mind and pushing me into a corner to clearly stand up and define who it is I am as both a person and a writer. I guess in a way the situation has made me question whether he didn’t take me seriously as a writer, because up until this point I haven’t taken myself seriously as a writer.

Over the next few weeks I plan to explore the different ways in which this person was able to disrespect me as a writer. I could of course sweep it under the rug, shrug it off and pretend it never happened, but why the fuck should I, my writing style pushes the boundaries and I often explore topics that allows society to stereotypically label me. This is the problem.. I am who I am, I am not the words on page I am the spaces between them and for that alone I deserve respect.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Amazing it isn’t.

Amazing it isn’t a commodity it is.

So I take control over the time that is his.

The oldest profession but my payment is time

I get a moments release in this cage that is mine.

There’s a reason behind the eyes that now see

it’s the only way that I can feel free.

I’ll get a week maybe two where i’m left alone

and all because I demanded I moan.

Amazing it isn’t a commodity it is

I simply added my own little twist.

Karen Hayward (copyright) 2015.

Long Gone.

Long gone are the days that turn into

the nights that turn in to the dawns.

With a tipple of choice and drunken slurred voice,

the air becomes chilled and slightly moist.

Long gone are the nights that I went with out rest;

the meat market trend of who looks the best,

those were the nights that I truly detest.

Long gone are the heels and the pretty short skirts,

and the constant worry of flirt or not flirt

as ogling men peered down my shirt.

Long gone are those days,

when i’d stay out late to play

closing my eyes where ever I lay.

Long gone are the days when I ran in that race,

people were lost without a trace

as they tried in vain to keep up the pace.

Long gone are the nights when my life was so lost,

when I risked everything each night not knowing the cost.

Long gone are those nights,

for I saw the light,

and it gave me a sight,

a reason to fight.

Long gone are those nights,

long gone is the fright.

A risk for he that did once exist.

In the back waters of reality I know it don’t exist

illusions whisper in the night, that it is a worthy risk.

So many dreams to spoil in a day

just with the words I so need to say.

I stop and I think and I turn away

and wonder who is it, that I truly betray.

In the back waters of reality I tell myself this,

you are an image that no longer exists.

The pretence of the truth of a forgotten kiss,

is that really worthy of the risk?

Chains of the woken.

Sometimes I wonder if I am broken,
as I consider thoughts left,
Unspoken.
Is it true, the strong suffer in silence?
As they defend themselves from
life’s strategic violence.
Perhaps it is the weak,
that refuse to speak,
Searching always for what they seek.
Sometimes I think that I am broken,
That my spirit lays in chains,
waiting to be woken.

Karen Hayward © 2014.

Untouchable.

Darkness, clouds
Of despair,
A constant compare,
Hatred and envy,
Reality versus fantasy,
Smother me,
But still
I stand tall,
Still I see light,
Reasons to fight,
Still I can love,
Through
The rough,
Life has failed to
turn me tough.
Still I can care,
I desire to share,
To play life
Fair.
Life,
you still haven’t
Dragged me there.
I will not compare,
Or stop and glare.
But for now,
It’s only for me,
That I care.

Intoxicated energy.

Always such a rush to intoxicate,
The bottom of the bottle,
Just cannot wait.
You’re not looking for answers,
As you’re too scared to ask the questions.
It’s escape,
That you create,
A reclusive excuse,
So you never have to choose.
You drink fast,
lose your mask.
Replace it with another,
Or
Perhaps
It is
The real you.
Is this true?
You’re not picky,
even when sicky,
Cidar, beer, wine
Or even a spirit,
Anything goes,
When you’re in the flow,
Rounded, smooth
Young or old,
Alcohol making you bold.
Always such a rush to intoxicate,
anything to avoid fate.