The discussion of want is acceptable between siblings.

Listen
to the music between your voice,
it's utterly inspirational.
Listen to the footsteps
of the drifting spirit:
we have come
as solid flesh
to make noise as we move.

The ocean is natural percussion.
The wind, I think, just everything.

I want to dance.
I want to make move the soul at my feet
and bring my whole world with it.
I want the incidental place,
a place, even, that goes on perfectly without me.
A place that will never know I have come to visit.
There will be nothing to do but dance.
I want to speak out with anonymous voice!
To the strange getting stranger
who will tell my story to me
and I,
for myself.

I want to dance
around the song of your riff
at the side of the road
waiting for our next ride.

I want to go off only
with my soul and my psychedelia.

It's a hard road.
It's a damn hard way.

I want to see layers of earth
no one will ever understand.
I want to confront They of every kind,
unless they are not kind.
I want to BE GONE
to be at roam as the chance encounter,
the chance conversation,
practically unimportant.

I give away possession.
I want nothing but the home on my back.
I will banish all luxury
and sprawl out in the dirt ground.
If the sky is clear
I will lay there for lifetimes
and declare myself elated
for this simple existence.
The world will know I have nothing,
and give nothing to me
but what
I can't leave behind.

The world, this dent
of our universe, an emotional playground
that keeps such mysteries.

I have been a grain of sand;
among many contemporaries.
I have been a cloud;
feeding flowers before their bloom
with my weeping rage.

I have walked
and have come across a brother.

I want nothing now that has resulted from human thought.
Nothing that has been taken or touched
or dabbled by manipulating hands,
I want just
the expression
of life.
The wilderness of man
and the characters of nature.
Do you hear? I want the road!
The FREEWAY, brother,
I cannot wait.

And above all my wants,
I consider it beautiful
that footprints left at the shoreline
last only moments
before a wave does come
to conform it back to perfect land.