An Old Scab

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 helpIt's not as bad as eating your own liver but still

I'd like to think that there are better methodsI 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 helpBut each time I try to make a fresh stab

I end up just picking at an old scab