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