A starving artist 

Living in the depths of the monster that is New York City

Living off of the ramen that fills the cabinets of my non-existent kitchen

The one thing I know how to make

That and burnt toast for the mornings I have to rush off to work

A simple job

A barista at a small and local book nook cafe

Picking up shifts whenever I can to save up for an apartment uptown 

Instead of sleep, my nights are filled with pages upon pages of scribbles 

Some deformed greek sculptures

Others poems of the lives I want to live and the emotions I express to my stuffed cat Barry

Ginger cat with stripes and a little furry goatee

He’s not fluffy anymore but redresses my heart with the nostalgia of a simpler time

A simpler time of not worrying about rent

Or making my deadlines for the janky, half-a** newspaper I write for

Every morning I wake to the sound of bustling cars and angry new yorkers on their way to a job they don’t want, getting paid the wages they don’t have enough of, on the hours they can barely work

But for me

Waking up to the smell of old coffee, paper-back books, and a half working heater is all I need

It’s a minimalistic life I keep telling myself

Minimalist in the terms that it’s a studio apartment with a futon and a booth from the diner that closed on 42nd

But it’s all I need really

I have work that pays rent and a passion that pays my soul

There are days when I don’t have the motivation

But that’s when I turn to my art

My sculpting, my writing, my portraits

And what artist was truly appreciated in their time

I’m leaving a legacy