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