The Writer of Words

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The words the words the writer of words,

The one who lives for the nouns and the verbs.

Alone in his attic, gone to his room, thinking of something, a plot twist or truth.

The words the words the writer of words.

Prose doth he speak, knows what he knows, sees what folks doesn’t, see what folks done.

Thinking it always, see words less speak, teaching us something, writes what we read.

The words the words the writer of words.

Always he does, tinker his best, lays down the rules, opens his chest.

Let’s us all in, to that weird little mind, provides for us glimpses, of thoughts stuck in time.

The words the words the writer of words.

What is this talent to roll and to go. What is this desire to describe just one rose.

A man of the world? A man of the arts? A maker of stories? A thief of used plots?

What is his trait, why does he think. Why does it matter if we like what we read?

What is this passion? From where does it come? Secluded in nothing, promises to him none.

Not laughing funny, not getting laid, not getting read much, not getting paid.

Still he can’t sleep. Still he does write. Still his pen scribbles. Still he sees light.

Where is this end? At what tunnel he thinks? Does he not know that he’s working for free?

Find his reward, please show it to me! Tell me the prize to take on this disease!

Tell me for once, just give me one word, give me a reason this mans lives so absurd!

Well I’ll tell you reader, I’ll say what I know – The thought of not writing fills writers with woes.

For when pain does come, when life is unfair, there’s two kinds of escapes, addicts all do share –

One is through drugs, sex and bad things. The other’s through art, hearts raised to beauty.

For a man of the world does not see these two lines – he is a fool who thinks they’re both of one kind.

But I tell you something, for I have once seen – A man in his mind accomplish impossible things.

For hours spent thinking, writing fine lines, imagine the way to reach that pinnacle high.

How does that happen, to whom does it go? Who are these writers we have come to know?

They are the ones who persisted the best, they are the writers who pushed on from the rest.

Through all the rejection, the hatred and such, the loss of a lifetime, the miss of one’s touch.

Keep going forward, make that book great. Get that shit perfect, work through night’s late.

At the end of your life, on your death bed, would you rather have quit, or stuck it out to be best?

Is it not worth the struggle, not worth the strife, to see your own words, passed on through time?

I say it is, I say that I do, the words I do love you, now please love me too.

The words

The words

The Writer of Words

– Thomas M. Watt

Before Comfort’s Bliss

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Thighs sliding, fingers cramped, sweaty pores, moving hands.

Rocking swiftly, moving gently, moaning sounds, hefty taking.

Hands caress, muscles push, breaths grow heavy, lamps are shook.

Moving swiftly side to side until a turn brings her to rise.

Rising up from up to down, pushing forth, pulling out.

Turning over, once again, breaths do mate, fingers blend.

Kissing, touching, quaking lots, moving down from neck to next spot.

Lips do squish, tongues they kiss, elbows bend , her pelvis kicks.

Eyes they meet from eye to eye at first they see but soon they fly.

Enter back into her body, watch her glisten, feel her naughty.

Twisting over to one side, slides to hip, leg twined is fine.

Hair grows wild in his hand, pulling hard, faster again.

Moving closer, dripping sweat, to her forehead, feel her breast.

Sheets all rustle, bed does break, blankets fall and moans do rage.

Raising volume hear the sounds from one man’s push till one girl’s found.

Voices quiet, thoughts they bleed, grips of holding pressing deep.

Heads come closer, heat it rises, slanted mattress provides for driving.

Springs they rattle, muscles ache, one limb stiffens, one girl shakes.

Hurrying on, fast again, lips they meet, breaths quicken.

All at once the sounds explode as does the load as does the show.

The two embrace for one small kiss before a rest and comfort’s bliss.

– Thomas M. Watt

Adam’s Plot

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A point, a reason, a purpose due.

A thought, a quest, a long pursuit.

A fear, a doubt, a question posed.

A reason for the reader to go.

Entertainment is not enough,

Nor are words puffed up with fluff.

Need to feed the man some strengths,

Some endless longing for his wrong days.

For what does this one man stew?

What is it that he so must do?

Brain is trembling, being all fears, so much time – plot’s still unclear.

Cannot quite touch it yet, need the thought but it’s still wet.

A playboy, a pessimist, a selfish man too,

Fear of love, a heart untrue.

He needs the fame but no King’s glory,

He needs a plot or his story’s boring.

Currently his chapter’s are fun,

A lot of sex, a thoughtful run.

Does his best to escape his needs,

Falls in love with Gnashing’s great weed.

A woman who is beautiful, charming yet, precisely dull.

She’s got a character much like his own  – Sweet with words, a heart that’s cold.

His story ends with much betrayal, for the girl who did enable –

Him to meet the antagonist, she brought him to the bad man’s twist.

So what now, what’s all I’ve told?

From what you’ve heard, what quest is known?

I need a plot, a question to pull. I  need a purpose, or Adam’s story just lulls.

– Thomas M. Watt

I Should Not Post This

Surgery, hand’s asleep, drugs are messing with my head.

I am not a little boy nor good thinker when I’m floyed.

Yes that word I made up there  ’cause currently I don’t give a care.

Good time to post? Not so much. Hard to think I’m all drugged up.

Get me Cheetos and some cheese ah forget it I’ll take the keys.

Oh what’s that I cannot drive? Well fine then you drive I’ll ride.

Cheetos Cheetos what a plan, cat named Chester seems like nice friend.

I like his glasses and his wit, be fun to hear him joke a bit.

How was my surgery you want to ask? Wearing arm sling but it will pass.

Naked walking through the streets, buttoned shirt on just one sleeve.

Like the way girls look at me, like I’m wounded just to treat.

Favorite parts of girls is there – the way they care when life’s not fair.

Yippy, yes, yippet-yeah – I like the girls who love to share –

All their kindness with a stranger, even when he could mean danger.

Danger sexy or a risk? Hope I didn’t myself convict.

Meant to say a sexy way, now my image is in decay.

Well, ripe, welp, outwith, forgive me drugs are writing this.

What to do oh what to say, kind of stuck on girls all day.

I wonder if writer’s get laid by well-played prose and timely plays.

Quite so cool oh it would be, to say a line and make them scream –

“Oh you’re so brilliant sexy man! Oh please come hither to my bed,

Say me more so I can dream about your brain you dazzle me.”‘

I would respond, “Oh, ha-ha, aha tee-he, girl you’re… something autumn leaves.”

 “You said something in that phrase, I am quite sure you’ve ruined this blaze.”

“What, a blaze? You mean this trick? You mean the way I feed my dick?”

“Oh you bastard! Don’t you care! And your followers, with them you’ll share?”

“Shit I guess so, wrote it down. Damn my lady you’ve made me frown!”

“Perhaps you should now, after-all. You’ve proved yourself has too much gall.”

“Hmm… I like that!”

“Well they won’t! In fact they’re turned off by your quotes.”

“Damn I tell you, damn I say, girl just run please go away.”

“Ugh of course of course I will. You’ve turned me off without your quill.”

“Well I’m drugged so it’s okay, but one quick word before you stray?”

“What! What is it? I’m leaving goon, I hate the thought I thunk to spoon.”

“Yes me too just with my wiener. Shit I said it -“

“Dare go on I’ll kick your knees. For the love of blogs what did you need?”

“What? Oh yes now I remember – please purchase Cheetos and bring them hither.”

– This has been Thomas M. Watt post-op and on a variety of drugs.

The Writers’ Dream

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Back is hurting, ass is sweaty, tired of hunching, always pressing,

Got to get back on my feet got to get those words to seep –

Through my fingers, from my pen, to the desktop, repeat again.

How many drafts does one book take, how much perfection do readers crave?

Doesn’t matter, I don’t care, I know one day it will get there.

Perseverance? That is shit. Try to spend one year like this.

Learn to get up when you’re damper, know each word from front to backwards.

See description and how it lies, find out what meets readers’ eyes.

For it is not the talk of bees, nor the words that make you pleased.

What readers want is not so much, just to read and feel a rush.

To stimulate the modern mind, without much pictures in faster times,

To do the work of talking grand is indeed one dumb-ass of a plan.

They did not come here just to see the mind of yours and learn you’re deep.

They came instead to just relax, to grab a book and eat a snack.

To keep them going for one night, to let them think your book reads right.

Get them thinking it’s a treat, get them wondering why ‘Jack leaps’.

Raise a question, submit the answer, in the middle fill with banter.

Do this once and you’ll achieve, fulfillment of the writers’ dream.

– Thomas M. Watt

Various thoughts that fit Together in my Untamed Mind

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Pretty girl, sitting there, gazing wide, looking fair.

I know you see it, I do too, the art from God, the voice of truth.

The problem is, you know it’s true, we’ve come from heaven with work to do.

I know my calling, know it fine, called to live my life divine.

By God who judges, He who speaks, the One who whispers my heart to sleep.

I know you want it, want it bad, knowledge of this so makes me sad.

For it’s not quite me of which you want, nor my heart, nor my cock.

But you want the dwelling bruise, the heart that aches, the lasting blues.

I’ll say it simply for some ears – the truth hurts me, the truth you fear.

For when she longs and so “Wants you,” all she wants is the pursuit.

Give her mystery, give her myth, a taste of wrong, a hint of bliss.

Her one true goal is to have you chained, but once she does, you’ve lost the game.

– Thomas M. Watt

I Need to Be

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Feel your stare your absent glare your want of knowing what’s in there,

Know you sought to know me through, I’ve got not much to say to you.

I’m sorry girl but don’t you see these thoughts have got the best of me.

Would rather here some more ’bout you like what it is you want to do.

Tired of the thoughts of me, tired of wanting, needing sleep.

Say to me the things unsaid the things most folks so often dread.

You know the words the rhythmic blues the fear of saying just what is true.

I know you feel it ’cause I do to, I know just what is plaguing you.

But don’t you see the vision’s free the only way to ecstasy.

You hear me spinning words like that, that’s just to get you on your back.

No I’m kidding, joking please. Don’t mean to make you quake you knees.

Ah nice slap that hurt a bit I’m sorry girl I cannot quit.

Sometimes the way these thoughts expel like flagrant breaths through quiets yells.

Baby girl it’s back to you, tell me so I feel them too.

Don’t ask me what, you know the answer, it’s penned inside your heart’s disaster.

Show me pain and misery I’ll show you mine but for a fee.

I swear it tears me up inside, pulls my heart out, leaves me dry.

Please don’t go there, please don’t please, please just see I need to be.

Not quite trying, nothing cares, here’s the secret I’d like to share –

Hold your moans your throbbing chest, you cannot let me get the best.

Oh quit trying to play me please it’s all a game until you weep.

Sorry girl, you have to know, the thoughts own me I have to go.

– Thomas M. Watt

Bye Girl

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Words rain heavy on my face,

Brings with them a weighted pain.

Hear them ringing in my ears,

See them playing to my fears.

Thoughts of humans are so crude,

Tired of seeming oh-so-rude,

Sick of such prolonged frustration,

Hurting from such alienation.

Chirping Flirting Smiling Scoff,

Please just leave if you have a cost.

Cannot pay the bill you’ve laid,

Cannot afford to fall from space.

Got no money for a vice,

Got no patience for false nice.

Seems to just get out of hear,

Need to find another gear.

Need to know it’s not just me,

Who tosses, turns, loses sleep.

How much longer can this thought go,

How many minds can one dream glow.

How much time is left for here,

And will it end with minds this clear.

Must I lose a piece of me,

To gain a slice of humanity?

Do not want to trouble you,

Just want to say my minds on cue.

Liked the way you smiled and laughed,

But care so little about your act.

Do not wish to impress you,

With lies of bold and words that use.

Would much prefer to see you smile,

Laugh it off and stay a while.

Sorry if I’m seeming rude,

But I wanted you, and not some prude.

– Thomas M. Watt

Oh where do we begin? The rubble or our sins? – Bastille, “Pompeii”

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And there I was just sitting there,

Watching fire fall from air.

Vesuvius boomed and did explode,

I sat down and prayed in pose.

Oh my Lord what have I done,

This is the end and no more fun.

God what happened why’d we leave you,

Now my city burns to ruin.

I hope to God they see some day,

I died right here, right where I pray.

– Thomas M. Watt

Perhaps I’m Not an Idiot

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Tired eyes, sleepy sighs, words are ringing singing rhymes,

Bells are back, the ruse it floats, I’d sure love to write good quotes,

Hope someday this dreams lands here in this present atmosphere,

Keep on going, almost there, getting close produces scare.

How much better can this be? How much work I’ve done for free.

All for one to read it true, all for buyers to say I do.

Cannot imagine a greater feeling than to produce an intrigued viewing.

Read my book, won’t you please, take a look, enjoy the read.

If you don’t, I don’t care… No I’m kidding to be fair.

Writing words that make you quit will make me throw a childish fit.

But to see you turn that page, just to feel you feel my rage,

To know the man is not alone, to know for sure I wrote true prose,

Just to see you stop and stare, to feel your eyes on what I’ve put there.

To know my pen produced that scribble, to hear my page played like a fiddle,

To know I’ve conquered the t.v., to see for once the thoughts of me –

Carried on into another, shared by those who pass the cover.

To see the work amount to glee, to know for once I’m not diseased.

Finding out is not so bad, as long as finding makes you glad.

– Thomas M. Watt