There are words in my head. Lots of words. Thousands.
They dance about on tables crafted from the finest membranes in the world, flashing through the dark lit only by firing neurons. Clothed in slinky new dresses they sway the night away as they swallow copious amounts of tequila, wine, and vodka.
Then they stumble home, dark circles beneath their eyes, smeared mascara, broken heels, and the facade of happiness floats away as they climb wearily to their lofts in lower Manhattan, desperate to collapse onto feather laden beds. Covered with silky comforters, they sleep until the following evening when they arise, slip into even slinkier dresses and creep out to even swankier clubs in order to dance the night away.
I try to catch them, these words.
They disguise themselves each night in a different mask. Scatter to the wind and hide inside clubs with bouncers larger than the Titanic itself.
So I wait.
Impatiently.
As my words dance the night away, laughing, joking, drinking, as I huddle outside in the hot humid air, parched to the core, unable to reach in and grab an expletive to express my frustration. It’s as if they’re inside some giant claw game and I am forced to spend quarter after quarter yet still come up empty.
I want my words back dammit.
My Postpartum Voice 
They will come. They’re just getting themselves into the right order so they can properly sing. xo
That they were. I found them! ;-)
That was an amazing description! And.. I truly understand. As of now I am starting to question myself as a writer all together due to lack of cooperation from my imaginary friends that I believe I have taken very good care of. I think they hate me now for some reason because they refuse to speak to me.
I think sometimes the words need a break from us rather than the other way around. We manipulate words so often.. they have to get tired, right?