And I want to write

And paint a picture

And maybe put on a play

But I have to eat

and make sure that I’m not put out on the street

and god forbid I get a cold

I’ll have to make sure that I don’t lose electricity or heat

so that I can write

and paint

and put on a play

and everyone thinks art isn’t a serious thing

so, I’ll have to make money the old-fashioned way

lie, or cheat, or steal, or profit from something

that makes people bleed

then write a poem about how I feel sad for all of that greed

and in the end, I’ll die unaccomplished, and some

grad school student will complain it was boring to read