I recall the many crumpled pieces of paper
It took to complete a single thought
The noisy typewriter and the worn out erasers
Would petition me to bring an end to their plight
As I would push myself away from the desk
Trying to get some rest before morning light arrived
The ash tray left smelling up the room with the remains
Of a pack of cigarettes smoked down to their filters
Yellow fingers and bad breath drenched in nicotine
Were the end result of hours and hours of self examination
It was a struggle to write anything back then
Let alone something to leave behind for you to read

Ted Sheridan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1967-critiqued-after-all-these-years/