I sit each morning

Look at my empty notebook

The room is quiet

The air conditioning sounds like rain falling



Manic-depressive composer Robert Schumann

When he could not write

He'd get down on his knees and he would pray for help



It's not as bad as eating your own liver

But still, I'd like to think that there are better methods



I try to tackle the page that lay before me

But then I drift off and think about the concept of ben-wah balls

I rouse myself and I finish washing dishes

Make lists of errands

Make all my phone calls

And then I pray for help



But each time I try to make a fresh stab

I end up just picking at an old scab