A Stone Hits Home is a poem written by Pasithea Chan and shared with The Ugly Writers for the month of July

A Stone Hits Home

Even white noise can give you a migraine when your world stands still with pain. Fight is a light that can blight a heart with plight like a sunrise drabbed into a sunset with fright. Bereft bonds feint hearts until they faint. You can’t plant your feet where you can’t wait; just as you can’t lean on paint or enliven a brick. The trick is not to stick with what won’t stick. Life’s stories are muddy quarries where worries cloud those under and shroud with their thunder bereft memories like lightning hailing pain for rain. They make you seek shelter and wait for things to get better They let you stay but in the end you pay. They toil and soil you until you play parts that deafen you to words that slay your heart before your ears or mind can hit replay. Everything and everyone is nothing and no one when you lose heart and part with who you were. Sometimes the start is the end because a part of what happened to you becomes all of you yet apart. Sometimes where you summarize how you are: A busy street in the alleys of defeat. A flustered pleat torn in an unsuccessful feat. From someone to no one to everyone. After all, we are all victims of tole bells that toll: To fall is a call: to stand tall or lose it all for a goal Life is a game, so let’s play paying for our stay. We all gotta pay, sometimes by staying away. The pain is the same even when all you gain is a chance to do it all over again like a stain that won’t go; it drives you insane with its inane dance tapping to condition your brain with bane. You look the same, but you are never the same. You wonder why right goes left-right with what’s left. or why chances and hopes are tropes; or you can accept that there’s nothing left to be missed when home is where you were left. Time to run, what a pun! Age is time’s theft in a time where loved ones leave one bereft. Alone is a stone that hits home, a home alone, with windows made of plumes not stone with paper panes filled with words not broken bone that sings like birds do every sunrise, only to be gone when the sun sets as I set in stone I am on my own.

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Give some love to Pasithea Chan by reading her previous posts here. You can also find her brand of poetry on Facebook.