It doesn’t matter what language you speak because all screams sound the same
It doesn’t matter what your skin color is because all blood runs muddy red
It doesn’t matter if you are afraid because everyone has the same fear
It doesn’t matter what god you worship because even the gods run in the end
It doesn’t matter how big your eyes are because they still cry the same tears
It doesn’t matter if your ears can hear because it’s always rumors and lies
It doesn’t matter what clothes you wear because we are all stripped of humanity
It doesn’t matter if you are smart of stupid because we are all suffering from insanity
It doesn’t matter if you **** now because we all die the same way
1 death is a tragedy
1,000 deaths is a statistic

Funny how friends are
When you need them most
Some disappear
Some haunt you like a ghost
Some stick around to spread cheer
While others forget who you are

They say you know your friends
In times of tradegy
Sometimes I really wonder
If that's as true can be

Because I noticed something
About my friends this year
I've needed every single one
Whether strange or dear
I've needed every single one
Each at different times
To help me with sadness, death and fear

I needed to be on my own
I needed to be haunted too
I needed to be cheered
I needed to be forgotten, who?

My friends, they know me
Sometimes all too well
They always know to make me better
When my life goes to hell
They always know to help me out
And can make, as always, my heart swell

I hope I return the favor
At least a time or two
And that you, my friend
Can find me when you are blue


© Deanna Repose July 30, 2009

Close by her side he paused to stand, as he took the class ring off her hand.                
All who were watching dared not to speak, as a lonely tear rolled down his cheek.
Family and friends broke out in tears, as he whispered "I Love You" into her ear.
All thru his mind the memories ran, the moments they shared walking hand and hand.
Now her hands were so terribly cold, he never again will have her to hold.
Looking back at that horrible ordeal, she wasn't as sober as she thought she'd feel.
They all said goodnight, and she went on her way, now such a tradegy they all pray.
As soon as the wind started to blow, they lowered her casket into the snow.
Too many people carry the pain, of a lost loved one who had nothing to gain.
Friends don't let friends drink and drive!  **Leann Lackey

Sorrow has always captured my attention,
Tradegy framed in a single face,
A tear, all memories refracted from a single point.
Depression is always elegance in action,
Movement of one stage of a persons true grey,
To the next lightest color.
Color, not shade.
For we can all learn to interpret the grey.
But when that persons face brightens?
Their light is a stark display,
Deep indigo dances with flaming scarlet,
True cobalt blue swims alongside sky blue, yellow dawns a new era of verdant green.
All because of one small tear-shaped prism of refraction.
All shades of joy, frenzies of different shades dancing in one picture.
Shades, because all we knew was grey.
But joy... subsides. We all know this true, fortunately.
Without this, we would never see the beauty of grey.
That which is true rock bottom, Untainted by the scarlet of anger, the yellow of joy.
No, the pure single eloquence of sorrow.

I called them our divorce beds
Every night after we cuddled and couldn't
longer stand the claustophobic cover of our sheets
we found ourselves in seperate beds

divorce beds.

You slept on sheets covered in pink owls.
I slept on teal sheets covered in stars.
We were a twin bedroom dream.

Taking full advantage of a single dorm room
Our nights consisted of heavy whispers
Trains that fled our lungs and vocal chords
in search of the next station

Before sleep hit our barren chests
We'd lay awake and listen to our breaths
Sometimes mine turned into snores.
You hated that

Snores reminded you of your father
Something about expanded vocal chords
creating a symphony at night
scared you

Your father never married
Mine found safetey in a women
in a polka dotted dress
Who could transform his symphony of snores
Into an orchestra of love

Your father was bound by his only son
His nights spent in distress
Echoed a chorus of tears

Until he met Melinda
He called her beautiful
Words that hadn't left his lips since his son emerged into the world
A women full of desires and hopes
too large to fit underneath fitted sheets

You told me about her.
The way your father described the outline of her lips
parallel to the lines of stars that filled the sky
Her freckles constellations of undiscovered stars
Some nights our divorce beds
Felt too close for comfort, and
you would disspear in the morning
Claiming there was monsters in the walls
and that my snores were your fathers

You loved your father
A man who kept his word
Even when his life wedged tradegy into his veins
and his heart wanted to collapse into the inside of his chest
Your love for that man
could never be compared to anything

My father
Foud his life strewn apart into carefully
strung pieces of literature.
Words lulling women into the secrept compartments of his home
With authors no one had even heard of
Except himself.

The only advice my father only said was
“Two wrongs don't make a right”
But it is so hard
When you are throwing rocks at my glass house of confidence
I would shout

Shattered by your slurrs
Skipped rocks don't even miss
the walls that were carefully sculpted
into beautiful stained glass

My father was an artist
I told you about how his conductor
was a women with lips blood red
and kisses so sweet they could make his canvas bleed

You laughed
The differences between our fathers
Two men who believed in two different things
Two men who were in a constant search
for something other than the normal routine

As you laughed underneath your **** pink owl sheets
You told me to hurry up and fall asleep
You felt better listening to my breathing pattern lullabyes

Sometimes when those lullabyes turn heavy
and my chest rattles beneath my teal starred sheets

Please don't leave.
Don't flee.
There is too much hope living under our
divorce beds.

6 chapters into the story of myself
I realised the happy ending had been and gone
And it would have been safer to stop reading
Before the tradegy set in,
You can't see it yet, but it sits like smoke
Upon the ink, and sometimes you can hear it
In a page turning, a soft shrieking
That could be mistaken for wind, if you weren't listening
But I was listening, and so steeled myself
For the building sorrow of the book

10 chapters in, all writing stops
Halfway through a word
And the agony hits like a car crash
Played on repeat in my head
And the tradegy rolls like waves in storm
And the shrieking becomes deafening
And the book closes
And in a whispered breath of a broken reader
You can hear the small sigh of relief

Trauma, tradegy, beauty, or despair
Hidden within our world
That we color so frequently
With words
Something changed us
Within our youth or wisdom
That we needed to explain
With words
But not words that flow
In full thought
Just words that are
Full thought
Skipping prepositions, nouns, sometimes verbs
You get the idea
At least that's my idea
Of the Poet's Common Thread

© October 12, 2009 Deanna Repose
Reposted from www.blog.deannarepose.com

Minds drawing blanks
To this semi loaded weapon
As broken ear gets spoken upon
By wasteful youth, spewing out mouthfuls
Speech impediments, Speech impairments
Drink to slur your words upon empty promises
Rhythms get tapped out, Rhymes get sung out
Blurred out visions, eye twitches
A sight looking out onto the decaying world
That closes in around the primitive creature
Stir crazed, Trapped and enveloped within its own self mutilation
Its embodiment shivers, shattering dreams
As it looks for the warmth of a blanketed soul
To be swept away like yesterday's recycled tradegy
Ripped torn apart otherwise dumped at its wayside
Tortured by its own demise
The jagged knife slices deep into its wrist
To only impeach a livelihood
Within its own words and steps
Wondering where to go on forth
From this plateau of mystifications
Truth be told, truth be had
Jack the pearl of the living psyche

Love is thoughtfulness,
Love is pain,
Love is giving your all to someone,
Love is falling in love with a stranger,
Love emotional
Love is hard,
Love is a deep tradegy to those who can't love,
Love is trusting someone and being honest,
Love is dying for someone you love,
Love is a unknown tradegy for us while don't love,
Love is sacrifice and giving your all and getting nothing in return,
Love is many things but unsure...

Now your eyes,
are pretty as the ocean, and crying whenever
it makes you feel blue. A sad tragedy, something I
myself can be too.

Uttering no words,
but all to trying to speak our very hearts.
And what does it say; what all does it bare?
The hurts of passion; so bitter sweet of pain,
all with your heart in hand. All the emotions you
hold onto, dare I say: 'you hold onto a tragic past love?'

It was painted with faith;
but not of the colours it wants be,
It was painted with love;
but as for now, how much of it can I see?
All of the eyes stories I've seen, but of their mouths
that won't tell. Casting charms of luck; but the words
to their love they even can't spell.

The enchantment all of one's former delights,
no otherwise from others in your life. I've warned you
not to trick my heart. I don't do well with any kind of magic.
But oh how I'm in love with being so tragic.

Tragically in love with you.
The tragedy of us both being so tragic in our past loves.
We're the tragedy to love.

It's about time people open their eyes. 
Look around to the tradegy of the epedimic 
of victims walking around among us.
How many more people do we have to lose to suicide before we take more action to stop this.
Not because you have a sister, mother or daughter.
Because she's a person. A human being with worth.
Stop sweeping these things under a rug.
There's no rug big enough to cover the 
damage that is caused by abuse. 
1 in 3 women are survivors of ****** assault.
How are we not outraged by this number?!
We hear of some of the brave ones who
dare to speak the evil that they have endured.
But why do we still so rarely hear of the perpetrators & them taking the responsibility for their actions.
It's like we have this deadly virus sweeping the world and people think they can just keep ignoring it. 
I'm tired of hearing victims being told not to speak the details of the harm done to them because it's just too hard for others to hear. 
Maybe you need to hear the brutal truth and
sit with your discomfort. 
There's way too many of us walking around 
carrying these burdens alone. 
Times up on living in denial.
Because what men fear the most about going 
to prison is what women fear most 
walking down the street alone.
Time needs to stop running out for the victims of ****** assault that have the choice taken away from them. 
Time needs to run out for those that think they can just keep getting away with this.
Yes, we are survivors. 
But when is it going to stop being so **** hard for us to keep surviving.

Malignant Mindless Maternal, Maliciously Moulding murderous Motives.

The Peternal parted prior the proof of pregnancy, the tears of heaven gave
birth to emergencies.

On the highway way of pain lonely and melancholy on coming traffic was a thunder stream.
tradegy waiting impatiently like an honest thieve.

Her feet heavy, a womb of twins is what she carried.
The clouds washing sins from the tarmac her screams unheard,
she gave birth in silence.

Two healthy beautiful boys, baptised by the rain.
The pain she borne was no more, propelling the boys over the bridge.
The umbilical cords around their vocal cords.
Death was born and LIFE was lost

Watch me go away
From your cold fingers
The ones I once craved to be in
In the arms of a stranger

Watch me go away
away from the hard,
the neverending,
heart that is drumming

Watch me go away
From your arms
Of pure desperation
That strangled me

Watch me go away
From the night stars
From songs on the radio
From stories of books you've read

But still I will appear
Everywhere you look
There lies a memory
In your distant dreams

Hear me sing
Of this bitter melody
Watch me end
This neverending tradegy

life is not forced...
.. .a distillation of sorrow
and yet
.....life was the greatest joy
it's own realm ...encased
but not breached....
the joy ...had it's own integrity
not touched by tragedy.

that joy, the measure
and source...spring.
....I remember sitting in rain
and blustering wind...
abiding.... and yoked... to life
this comic tradegy...within.

Out of a weeping forest a mysterious river flows.

It carries all the souls who lost their way and

have found no place to go.

The river travels very far into the womb of sea.

There the souls met others who came this way to be.

They gather round in floating fright wondering if it

is day or night.

They ponder their predicament and find no answer

to make things right.

The forest where they lost their way weeps for

them every day.

The river gently rushes through collecting those

who must pay their dues.

The ocean's womb is a forever thing that is

the tradegy, that is the sting.

One way in and no way out...

forever doomed to eternal doubt.

The life of a lonely poet...

A product of the moving circus,
a round of games in endless circles;
I'm still searching for purpose with a pocket
full of dreams, and old family curses.

That's me; like the tree of my family;
quick to leave when there's no options after plan B.
On a money diet; counting ribs of poverty,
in these busy restaurants; dreaming to swipe for meals
with my eyes closed honestly.
It's been so long; since I've been in a space of thought
were I actually belong.
Been a minute since I've written for so long; that the words
flow into a song.

The life of a lonely poet...

The skies of his life; turns a different shade of blue,
as he sees everything so beautiful in a different view.
The oceans must have kissed the tips of the sky;
all of which happens inside of his mind.
"I've got sometime to write," he tries to make the most of it,
over some work wi-fi.

Writing about a wife with his talented hand;
a love, a tradegy, a dream; mostly writing about
the things he kind of has or had.
Past tense; into future tense, but the present tense;
are all things being so intense.

The best painters of love, are those not in love,
just a picture in their head of love's sort of.
"I kind of; know how it feels,"
but a lonely poet is just writing to the audience's appeals.

Is anything real?

The life of a lonely poet...

So vicious; like the bites of those rough
kisses. That sinking bite on the lips, of a longest kiss.
So wet as two sinking ships; as the kisses are so deep.
He wishes he was writing for a physical Miss,
and having her straight after; and the taste of her lips.

Oh what a life of a lonely poet...

Abolish my soul to the firey morbid collision u call ur heart,
I dont reject the presence of lust and attraction to honor you my lady,
Filth and fire are standard to acomplish the tradegy we both deserve.
Feels so good!.
    




                                                                                    ☝️Jose gonzalez

I'm no longer living like this.
She throws the bottle to ground.

I'm no longer afraid of these zombies, these soulless creatures
that have come for me.
I will fight them from wherever, forever!

Walking into the night,
Traversing the death lands...

No, she says, there is something,
something long forgotten, something left there,
the smell of blood..

Though my hair is like black wire,
it will shine, luminous, and long once again.

Though my feet are dried, and burned,
they will carry me to where I need to go..

Though my skin darkened by torture,  
it will no longer bleed the ink of tradegy...

Though my eyes are crusted from smoke and blood tears,
they will continue to search for life in the funeral pyres..

I tear into my flesh, to keep me awake..
I've come this far,
There must be someone left for me...

- - -

And there I was, wounded, nearly bled out in the desert,
I thought she was a dream,
or a nightmare..
She touches me, and I jump...

Though shocked by her worn appearance, I feel her heart, beating strong.
She's a fighter, all right,
She's a survivor who has braved the night
to find me...

Life is a play,
The simplicity of the metaphor emphasizes the truth.
Life is a play,
You're decisions can change the genre from Comedy to Tradegy, from Drama to Horror.
Life is a play,
The audience won't know you've tripped up if you do some quick improv.
Life is a play,
Behind the script and the act lies the real message,
Life is a play,
You can either embrace the part you play or whine and be miserable,
Life is a play,
Some people are going to like your character and some aren't but that doesn't change who your character is.
Life is a play,
So take a bow.

What if......two musicians sub-consciously were synchronized in time?
An epiphany they experienced but to us was sublime
Did Freddie know while he was composing Bohemian Rhapsody?
That Marvin Gaye was recovering from a personal tradegy
Marvin was compelled to write about the signs of the times
He began with mother, mother and then asked the questions why
Freddie wrote "mama I don't want to die"
Each calling out to mother but with a different cry
Freddie's words reflected self-acceptance and self-conflicted war
But Marvin realized the war related conflicts, the world chose to ignore
Freddie wanted us to"open our eyes and see"
While Marvin sang " talk to me so you can see," that was his plea
The harmonization between the two revealed the torments of conflict and pain
Each reasoned within their hearts the complexities of change
Marvin expressed his desire for the world to see " what's going on?"
Freddie in his operatic vibrato sang " nothing really matters to me"
"Anywhere the Wind Blows"

My life is like a hurricane
Full of terror and tradegy
But you came along
And you were my sunshine
That I needed all along
And maybe that’s all it took
to be
o k a y

(I)

If weary eyes about this classic form
Intake each part; as syllabled before,
Then by such mind here meaning shall deform;
Equal'd the lay of bareness white it wore.
Is time as spare as air is plenty free,
That need bestow deception with what read?
Such reading glass forbids that beauty be
A script of heart; a sight that's better dead.
Yet beats here still and still you lasted long,
Now pity rules behind that centred stare?
To scorn this amateur's own state and song;
Summounting lines with mere a boorish glare?

If here by some of tradegy is true
Then wish you never read, nor wrote it too.

(II)

Enriched upon the riddance of your doubt
Comes comfort you're the old you thought myself,
Now you to fade and shall you fade without
The fame that gifts the older works their shelf.
New beauty now; adds you with further dust;
How knew the wise this antidoting cure:
That pleasures eyes and lets dissolve the rust
And bid this very heart here write her lure.
Yes! She by here account, withholds no lines
But flourish thoughts! Like leaves by April's spring;
That chatter sweet on limbs of sugar pines
In rustling, rapping ode: 'for her we sing'.

By merit due her beauty takes this hand
And writes new love not you in this withstand!

(III)

This poet's eye awakens in her grace!
Abiding treaty's of the sun and dawn,
That sovereign's sight reveal her blessed face;
Entrancing loyal ink that beauty's drawn:
With homage to the Nyx for hue of hair;
There woven rare as silk around a star;
To gently patterned curls of rippling flair
That becons yonder beams from moons afar,
To crystallize her pupils; aqua blue
In clear cut waters found no longer there,
With sensory of sight that pierces through;
Where waiting greets the words of love to bear!

'Oh not another sonnet!' Yet, by three
I have denounced your worth by praising she!