Black empty words create
Grey empty pages.

When you scribble-speak;
Colours spark from your tongue,
Heavy from your lips,
Bitter from the back of your throat.

But there's never enough yellow.

My colours muddle and dull and fade and leave nothing.
Just grey empty promises.

Watching documentaries about your trendy bands.
The 'Creative Process'. My shaking hands.

I'm inspiration and envy and my own constant shame
Because I'm still Lost to Larsson but by a new name.

I find meaning in nothing and nothing is mine.
I find meaning in water, in four inked red lines.
I fixate and form cycles, I'm Beckett's star act.

I make all these references, I muddle all that.

I'm an artist, I read, these aren't my own thoughts.
I'm not troubled, just open,
And I'm not really lost.

So what can I believe in? Hell, what can anyone?
**** God. **** 'The Classics'

I'll believe in being young.