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long after you are gone
you are still here
Wake up..Start my day
Oh my poetry has gone away
Missing my heart
Missing my soul
I sit and wonder where did it go?
Should I look in lost and found?
Is it running around all over town?
I wonder where could it be?
Then I remember it's locked inside of me
Where is that emotional key?
I want to play with my Poetry
Imagination from mind to pen
Vibration from words seamlessly blend
Create art by showing my heart
I can't stop...so I start
Not the whole just a part
Inspiration can be hard to find
To calm the many storms in a poets mind
I write..I fight to ignite a flame
A spiritual reality I maintain
Fertile is the soil of my soul
Free for my poetry to continue to grow..
M.A.N 5-6-14 So blocked lately I have been working on long personal pieces..these freestyle flows help me loosen up..♏
I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.
Perhaps our story ended,
and we turned past the last page.
Nothing left for amendment,
the path before us laid.

This book met a conclusion.
What a fairy tale it was.
Maybe just an illusion,
the heart and mind plays tricks, it does.

Yet it all just seemed so true.
Who knew,
it would be just like a movie?
People dream to exist like this,
instead they live assuming.

I backtrack through the chapters,
nearly driven insane.
Forever chasing after,
a retelling of our claims

Perhaps someday I'll feel the same
evolve beyond these throes.
In days those passions were untamed,
where every ending goes.
Raise, for your experiences, a city.
Build a warehouse, down the block,
Where you’ll keep the cosmos.
Build a bookshelf, within a brownstone,
Where some other things can go.
Like the time you grasped a flower,
Felt beneath, felt the spines that
Pricked your skin,
Made you cry.
But that shelf will be revisited many times,
In this fragile, crumbling zip code,
Forsaking more majestic memory palaces,
Because the vision reached your soul,
Through pain,
Of all that beauty, soft, red, enfolded into itself,
On such a slender stem.
Revel in the joy, but don't forget the pain. It is your god-given right and a valuable ally once accepted and befriended.    
One of the devices for memorizing inordinate amounts of data is to imagine a place and travel through it, mentally, placing items here and there along the way.  Recall is achieved by simply traveling through this imaginary space again, where the logic of placement becomes a natural mnemonic for recall.  Time and Memory are themes I find myself flying to again and again.   The flower was a person I felt wounded by, but learned that nothing is as it seems.
Hear it here, read by the author:
http://soundcloud.com/warmphase/the-memory-palace
It aches not really knowing,
Just to where it is I'm going.
Yet to never have the feeling I am lost.

It's like I'm walking around,
But yet I never get found,
It's only so safe and sound,
Out on the road.
I'll probably work more on this later.
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