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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
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