Thank you

I’ve updated this to include it in the Daily Post challenge: Making a new start is never as simple as it seems on paper. It’s easy to talk about losing a few pounds or giving up the job you hate to weave animal-shaped baskets on a tropical island, but less so to make it happen, and keep at it.

In this week’s writing challenge, we’re asking you to write a short piece of creative writing (fiction/poetry/prose poetry/freeform mindjazz/whatever floats your boat) on the theme of Starting Over.

Starting Over

You hit me and hurt me,
and watched as I fell.
Pleasure you took,
from my personal hell.
I begged and I pleaded,
you laughed in my face.
I gave you my heart,
you shat in it’s place.
I thought I’d hit bottom,
no hope for my life.
No family around me,
no longer a wife.
But something strange happened,
as time trickled past.
I started to smile,
relearned how to laugh.
Now I stand taller,
no longer afraid.
With hope for the future,
and plans being laid.
You left me alone,
cast off and adrift.
But in misery given,
I received such a gift.
Through sadness inflicted,
I’ve learned what goes wrong.
The signs to look out for,
as strife comes along.
So I thank you dearly,
for making me see.
I’ve come through the heartache,
as a much better me.

Tea in the cup

Lay with me,
please don’t get up.
We’re warm in here,
there’s tea in the cup.

Stay in bed,
we don’t have to rise.
Curl up with me,
and close your eyes.

Sunlight through windows,
warming the room.
We whispered all night,
and talked down the moon.

We’ve nothing to do,
no places to be.
No goals to achieve,
and no one to see.

So pull me in close,
and whisper my name.
Tell me you love me,
and tell me again.

The day will come calling,
and we’ll have to depart.
Clothes will be found,
blinds pulled apart.

But until then…

Lay with me,
please don’t get up.
We’re warm in here,
there’s tea in the cup.

The pain of distance

It’s times like these I hate the telephone.
The impotency of distance,
when the hearts love is in pain,
and the voice is the only link between us.

A supposed gift of communication.
To me it can be seen as a tormentor,
a machine to torture and tease,
a device to punish an already wounded heart.

Ineffective words travel across the airwaves.
Wanting to be close,
to offer physical comfort of strong arms,
but trapped in my own space.

Tears heard in the voice but not seen.
Each shuddering breath,
each sobbed word,
another pull at the cord around my heart.

There is agony in seeing a loved one in pain.
But the hurt of a dear ones voice,
separated by distance,
can often hold a far worse sting.

But forfeit this link between us I could not.
Although it is not your presence,
nor your breath in my ear,
it is something I could not be without.

I will bear the heartache of hearing you cry.
Hoping the sounds of my comforting words,
spoken with love and with deep felt care,
are heard with the clarity they are felt in my heart.