Poem by Pasithea Chan : “A Stone that Hits Home”

A Stone that 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 lightening 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 are 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 are summarizes 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 sing like birds do every sunrise, only to be gone
when the sun sets as I set in stone I am on my own.



Bio: Pasithea is an impressionist poet who dabbles in art and poetry. She enjoys writing about life and her experiences from different perspectives. She believes in art in poetry as in exploring art to emphasize its role in juicing creativity out of a quill. She enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology.  Combined with varied styles and topics, her motto will always be: poetry is a passionate expression kindled by an impression unlimited by public conviction.   To catch more of her work follow her on Instagram @pasitheachan or twitter @pasitheachan and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories.

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