Experience #Poetry #poem

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I Bask in dreams of Experience

The cure for the incurable is experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for curiosity

We have to follow
The majesty of the heart
How many do not listen
Lying to yourselves

I want to build a resume of sincerity
Authentic to myself
In youth, it was an easy thing

So sure to live my own theories I was
But now the things I know I know
Are not the things I do or know how to do
And if you do not like me so

To hell, of course, to hell with you
For why would I stake to please
The people that do not care
The people who are not close

The remedy for sanity is dear experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for experience
I hate having written, but I love writing

Don’t read this poem with that tone of voice
Tell God I was fucking busy—or vice versa
I’ve lived enough in poems, to fill a few brains
With envy, content, and sufficient champagne

Curiosity and freckles, if we are talking of youth
If I didn’t care for life so much
I’d probably not amount to much
But brevity, is the soul of dreams

Mortality, the sinner of hope
Regret, the grandmother of art
And if my heart became scarred or burned,
The safer I suspect, to find love in poems.

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