All I have are shirts with cigarette burned holes from when I put my arms around you

Holy are the pockmarked ridden arms of the ‘starving’ artist

How do we starve if there’s no want for food?

I want profundity

I want transcendence

I am myself again and I want four eighty for a bus ticket

And enough money to forget that I have to think about needs

This is about wants

I want to be left the hell alone

But neither success nor failure really favors loners

I want to write something great

And not sound somewhere between sappy and full of s***