Tell me what this poem should be titled.

Words chase each other around my head, blabbering, incoherent;
the half-formed heads of fairytale stories, never finished, never ending.
Wispy, like white eiderdown. Slowly floating to the bottom of my skull, there to stagnate in an eternal pool.
Occasionally, gravity reverses itself, they float up, towards the sunny-blue sky that is the top of my brunette head.
Together, the words solidify, and form stories, stories for you to read, stories for me to write.
Is your head the same?