I lie

I lied, I lie... very often,
Sometimes I don’t even remember,
At times I don’t wish to,
I like my memories clean,
They may not be worth a dime,
But they are all I have,
And when I stare at the ceiling,
I curse the blank walls,
All the colours that I have filled in,
Count for no real feelings,
Just a jumble of paint,
That I try to pass as a painting.