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

Editing

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Words fall down to death by red sword, pen cuts out the excess whores.

Red pen ink, to my page, stains the thoughts I pressed in pain.

Cut the shit the darlings too, kill the ego made from ruse.

Red line runs through half a page, cuts out these words I thought were great.

Cut the shit, cut it through, line-to-line an ‘X’ marks lose.

Red ink here and there a lot, lines by circle coffee blots.

Oh what action oh what prose guess what my words it’s time to go,

Leave my pages, I’m sucking thin, the story goes without you in.

I am so sorry, understand, the reader has made his own demands.

He said your lovely quite alright but he fears you’re endless plight.

You see dear words your painted tint, a sort of way to fake a win.

I guess you came to satisfy these thoughts of mine which I thought write.

Looks like I tossed you in a pile, mulled you over for a while.

Fell in love with your sweet mirth, should not have slept with Mrs. Adverb.

Time to say goodbye to you, nice to make you show such truths.

I am so sorry and so sad it’s come to this oh yes it has,

One more chance to let you speak, just one last thought I’m setting free.

The words that float and sound so good, the two I say do sound so rude.

I’m going to have to end with that, a spit of banter yet compact,

Off you go unneeded prose, take your charm you’ve been disposed.

No more fancy, no more show, grab your friend and off you go.

Suck my words into the night, enjoy this rhyme and sleep alright.

Read a thing a time or two, see it’s madness writing for you.

Well my words goodbye you two, bull-shit ends now – I bid ado.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Way of the World

Chipper feelings feeling good

Sweating more then I probably should

Working hard working late editing sure takes the cake

Mundane work oh yes it is yet still it is so important

What to wear what to say what to do I’m done today

Making my book fresh and tight fixing that shit ’till that shit’s right

Running hard walking fast thinking quickly what’s next task

Creating website here it goes soon the time comes to expose

What I’ve been doing with my life the reason I’ve spent a year inside

The truth is coming so get ready the book is close to being pretty

See the truth evolve from lies in this series I’ll grow your eyes

Soon you will see what’s divine soon I’ll show the world it’s very own lie

Starting steady so it goes the world still don’t even know

Just you wait just wait and see what I’ve written will be read and seized

It is coming almost here tell the worldly they all should fear

The book of days the book of all, “The Way of the World” is what it’s called.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Dreamers Who Do

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Wake up get up get out get tough,

Do work live work need work see work.

Do not tire do not quit do not worry do not sit.

What’s the task what it do, I fight that shit ’til I push through.

Get it done get it goin’ make that paper into somethin’.

You got dreams? I got ’em too so does everyone else you fool.

Who will make it? Too many try so where then lies the great divide?

It’s here you know I tell the truth the barrier between those like you –

Who will work on through the pain who treats the risks like it’s a game,

Who’s fearless who doesn’t doubt who grabs their junk as they strut out.

Walk that line, nod your head, let them see you feel their dread.

Every dreamer is put down, cast away and turned around –

Well, except for those who know one day all perseverance shows,

‘Cause those guys fight on through the rain and keep improving everyday.

Those guys bust their ass through shit those guys never think to quit.

Those guys make it, dreamers do, and if you’re willing you can too.

And on that day when that day comes, those people who mocked you on your run,

Those people will find you turn and say, “Congratulations, let’s hang today!”

Here’s my advice please listen to me, fuck those people who didn’t believe.

– Thomas M. Watt

At the End of Dark Tunnels

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Sitting here, all alone.

Working hard, work is dull.

Editing, words once more,

Editing, sluggish bore.

Wasting time, days to nights.

Spending life in unseen sights.

Hidden from the eyes of world,

Secluding myself from every girl.

Not much chat, not much fun,

Just an endless of hum-drum.

What’s it for, the wasting toil,

What’s the booty of my spoil?

I’ll tell you it right here and now,

It’s for my book to soon be found.

It’s for a career in writing reads,

It’s because I caught the writer’s disease.

But I’ve had success, yes I have,

In a different career path.

And what I tell you, what I know,

Is work unnoticed will always show.

And if the prize at the end of your tunnel,

Is worth it all, is worth your struggle.

Then I ask you, worker’s fear,

What good would the prize be,┬áif you didn’t persevere?

– Thomas M. Watt

When Men act as Men

The tree stump was rooted deep in the soil. It was time for a new tree to be planted, but before it could, the old stump needed to be uprooted.

The father and son stood at odds on many things. Career choices, personal views, political views, even thoughts on what was right and what was wrong. But the tree stump needed to go, and they were the only two willing to do it.

So they chopped. They took the axe and chopped, again and again, for hours. Still, the tree wouldn’t budge. Their hands were blistered, their bodies were tired, but the tree stump still remained.

So they pushed on. They pushed on and chopped at that damn tree like it was the scum of the earth, like it was the true root of all the world’s problems.

More time passed, but the stump still hadn’t budged. Their hands were bloody, their faces were red and sweaty, and every and all intellectual thought told them it was time to quit, and wait for another day to uproot the old tree stump.

But the father looked at the son, and smiled as he said, “Boy, I don’t know ’bout you, but I want this sucker out soon.”

The boy looked at his pop and returned. “Dad, I don’t know about you, but I won’t sleep if this stump still has roots.”

So they returned to the axing. Swinging and chopping, grunting and heaving. Gradually, the stump began to break loose from the soil, and, pretty soon, after a strenuous effort of tugging and pushing, they finally managed to pull the old tree stump out from the ground.

The father and son shared a brief grin, before simultaneously struggling to catch their breaths as they panted heavily. Eventually, the father stood up straight, put his hand on his son’s shoulder, then said to him, “Boy, we may disagree on things, and we may dispute a time or two. But when it comes down to it, I’m the same man as you.”

The son crossed his arms. “I don’t see that dad, I’m sorry pa, I think I disagree with you on more than all.”

The father laughed, then picked up a cold beer from the outside fridge, popped it open, then took a swig. “When I was your age my papa done raised me to see just as he, to see what he sees. But time done unfold and as I grow old, I realize that things ain’t all which they seem. For in relaxed state all men tend to hate, despise one another, make enemies outta brothers. But when it comes down to it and problems arise, difficult tasks which some folk despise, their must be a force to tackle the issue, there must be some men who don’t need a tissue. So when it comes down to it and it’s time to face woes, men act as men and fuck up their foes.”

The son smiled, opened the fridge, then took a beer for himself. He clanked the beer with his dad, and the two men enjoyed a swig together.

– Thomas M. Watt