Words, Upon Words, Upon Words Upon
By Billie Daddario
Is it strange that when I pick up a pen
my thoughts drain like a bathtub of lukewarm water?
Is it strange that just a few moments ago I had thoughts
that were hot like the thoughts of Sylvia Plath?
Is it strange that now my brain and my hand and this page don’t connect even though
they touch even though there are words flowing,
but the drain is open at my neck?
the words come to the page
but the thoughts drain away
before they are born in the cerebellum
I can taste there essence
but they won’t come.
And so, I write words upon words upon words
hoping a thought slips through.