This Stinks

When writing goes up in smoke.

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.