a stone that hits home

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

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.



 
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.
 
 #home #belonging #safety #mentalhealth #personalspace #confortzone #peace #happiness
#poetry #personification #impressions #poetsofinstagram #poemsofinstagram #poetryislife #poetrylovers #poetryinmotion #poetryisnotdead #poetrycommunity 




Submitted: June 25, 2021

© Copyright 2023 pasithea chan . All rights reserved.

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Comments

En Raiter

That was beautiful. I enjoyed that very much

Sat, June 26th, 2021 4:08pm

Author
Reply

Thank you for reading and commenting. I am glad you enjoyed reading my poem. Have a rockintastic day/night.

Sat, June 26th, 2021 12:33pm

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