I’m running out of ideas.
They never come to me.
I have to find them.
But they’re all just the same.
                            I don’t need help.
Going from place to place.
I always end up in the same spot.

Writing and writing.
Just to throw it away.

I light a cigarette.
Lean back and relax.

Clear my mind of everything.
But everything's the same.

I have a place for all my ideas.
But there’s nothing for me to find.
                                     It’s broken and old.
I’m left with only one thing on my mind,
And that’s filling up the empty jar I still hold on to.