Poetry

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.

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