They told me not to burn bridges but I love the smell of smoke.
Let's hope they hear the sound of your voice feel its deserved choke.

If you were even worth it, then I'd gladly cut you down,
but I think I'll let you get crushed by your
phony fucking crown.

What tortured verse doth speak of pain?
What rhyme doth voice this painful smart?
What words can soothe a battered brain,
An empty soul, and shattered heart?
Alack the day! No more am I
To live, to hope, to write or love.
Indeed, I fear mine end is nigh;
I wish to go to Him above.
Without my Love to guide me through,
This tempest's rage doth seem too much.
And now mine heart doth lifeblood spew,
I gladly go to Death's cold clutch.
For as I'm here, and you're away,
There's nothing bright about the day.

there are parts of me that force the pain,
that let it roil in my bones until i am breathless.
it builds until i exhale it in an herbal smoke,
or until i write it in a fervent and blood-rushed poem.

there are parts of me that don't feel the pain.
these parts are healed, and most days they win out.
they pervade the unhealed parts of of my heart,
and they fill me with an ecstatic joy.

there are parts of me that remember
and there are parts of me that forget.
there are parts of me that take in what i feel and use it
and there are parts of me that gladly let it drift away.

there are parts of me that are strong
and parts of me that are not,
and mostly i only show one part or the other.
i have no in-betweens,
and that's why i am me and why you are you.
i believe that's why someone fell out of love with me
and i believe that's why i am so changeable, so wild, so full of doubt.

i am pieces and parts,
broken and lovely,
tessellated and electric and free.

Hence was late upstart,yet states and stars with inspiring arts would find,
When much is tripping unto history's past, let i, gaze to charge and bound.
Weld my fanciful world in heaven's muse: new tunes, does brim in pleasure,
Sought Desires in Delphic tunes,an antique taste,my quest's could treasure.
Phoebes,by whom admired me curious thoughts,so brawn,this Titan's name,
Outshines some vainly stars,when greatness thus partakes very lyrate fame,
Through olympus in majestic car, through souls these music's godly weed,
Wrought refined present's towards mankind true poetry, our's dainty need.
When of ken does work, here solely mate is brain with hasting beam forth,
Like a lately dawn 'scaped from its father's lap,to natures change's breath,
Therewith some awful embraces feels; wakes this thoughts from dying lyre,
Nah,not death these things,yet generates fast and show its zeal,and dare.
Sieves the verses from darkness,life its golden lark do gladly announce.
Lights with gift's from Dorian's specular driven tones, far these years.

                                                        Nithin Purple

She doesn't know
She doesn't know
That I'll go
Gladly go
With a straight face
I've picked up my pace
Trees pass by
Sidewalk cracks
Is it wrong
To move on?
Let go
You have to
Or be dragged
You will
Until your skin
Is scratched to bone
Until your face
Is unrecognizable
She doesn't know
She doesn't want to know
That I'll go

In reading an interesting book today
I came across a line that gave me pause
"Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
I've always taken secret pleasure in being somewhat different
Even odd some may say (as most archaeologist tend to be)
But in that sentence from the book
I stopped to give it thought  and came away with something
I would have never considered till this day
I wouldn't mind being just like the Joneses  
A happy family just down the way
Right down to the mini van and Mr Jones and his golf shirt tan
With creased khaki shorts and socks in loafers
I would gladly give up my worn faded jeans work boots and untucked
Neal T-shirt covering my boot lace belt and trim my hair
To be exactly happy like the happy Jones family down the way

Would it be weird if I said I would be yours forever.
All you need to do is ask.
I would forget all my dreams and hopes,
Change them for yours.

Would it be wrong if I said I would give my life for you.
I would gladly take a knife to the heart,
It if ment saving yours.

Would it be sad if I told you I long for you,
I vision you here with me
But then reality takes over and you dissapear.

Would it be the end of me,
The end of who I am if I gave my all to you,
Would I vanish if I lived to be with you
Melting into your life.

Would it be true
If I said all I do is for you.

there is the world so much i think i have felt it

have felt by it
and by it felt

so much it
(the world)

who in droves presses ugly Spring against me
who in heards comes dying and immortal
who in sleeping flowers laughs most
(the world

by sting invisible
impulses each rotund death
of lungs upon heaps of dying
to go out and wear more gladly it

it girls laughing
it boys sweating to be first
it arcuate of hips
it thundering of industry
it of millions tinly each


each pointless
each fathomless
each more than last
each next than other
each the other than the next

i think and i have seen by it
and have i?
way north over the barn where goes the winter
when in neatish crimson hulking pricks comes

first small coming

then steadily gargantuan

Summer

in deep veins of failing gold
only to brittle
only to fold and tousle
only to rubble and quake

alas

and i have thought

alas

and i have read

alas

and i have felt so proud to get at the meanings of poems

) but ever have i known it?

No.

i have not been my feet to push of it a million splendors

i have not been my throat to scream so loud my body shook

i have not been amongst its people

i have not tasted

i have not been by the skinny bank of a winding stream in the middle of Summer when the cool water tickles across the span of each toe the wholeness of being

i have not kissed so long to love

i have not breathed so long to speak

what then can i say?
but do i say it?
of course

i say it by hands between quick thighs
uncurling hurting bruises of hot sharpness

i say it in the hunched play of a girl's wetness

i say it in the calm stroke of a withered dog's scalp

i say in quiet moments as in loud moments

i speak(and i always speak)

and i think i have the world so much by it felt as to know it

and i think i do not know it

and i think it is not so much

and i think i have not felt it

In my absence
My mind has been doing back-flips,
back-spins and hand-springs.

They really should be called head-springs.'

Off a spring board I began vaulting.
Trying to spin, tumble, turn des pairs
of thoughts stuck in the landing area

Threw a little french in there for ya.

Grasping at hysteria asymmetrically with sanity
must be stronger than anxiety. Like a glass coat, it blankets me
however you can see to the core, translucent rings of a tree.

Walking the balance beam
between life and suicide sporadically.
Being pushed on both sides by a jet stream

Surviving is a pipe dream because we are all dying.

Once again I am on the floor. However,
I am implored to look forward by poetic neighbors.
All I gotta do is knock on their door and they'll gladly give me a cup of esprit de corps.

More french, Au revoir