|I put pen to paper, and stare at the wall.
The only thing flowing is ink.
The ideas are blocked, my cigarette's stale
And my single clear thought is: I stink.
My clothing, my hair
My skin and my clothes.
There's nothing redeeming in that.
Perhaps that's a story,
Waiting for words -
But nope. My writing falls flat.
The story of how I quit smoking! Oh yes!
Surely that would be interesting stuff.
I ponder the thought, flick off the ash
And exhale a great greyish puff.
I hang my head, cry a dry tear,
And there's only one thought I can think -
It seems that my writing is just like my habit
Today is a bust -
I just stink.
© Copyright 2001 Ms Kimmie (UN: kimmer at Writing.Com).
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