Paper Plane Pilots

Much more than grief after death

More than affection heightened by new love

I just want the chance to feel.

Feel again, what I remember from isolated car rides.

The isolation of driving down the 101,

The moment before sunbreak and the safety of anonymity disappears.

 Feel again, at what seemed to be stored, inside wooden wheelbarrows,

storing life like hallowed whisky.

Many don’t make it past the maturation process of the aged wooden cylinders.

The deafness of the conversation, mandates my lack of correct words

All that remains are an empty pack of cigarettes and a 40oz from movie night.

Who could have believed adolescent’s made it past 25.

We were never snug, never nestled in two, like a pack of Twix.

Never attached like keys, inside your pocket

The freedom of space, is a lowly lie indeed,

But an emotion non the less.

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I’ve mapped the stars through inversion

The reflection of a deadlocked pool

Superficially favoring a change of course


This love accumulating over time

Has grown exponentially more exhausting

I suffer from neither contrition nor objection

Only the unshakeable conviction

That “I” as the subject have died


So much of your heart remains uninhabited

Immaculate white rooms with no juxtaposition

We sleep with our backs facing, crepuscular eyes

Seeking truce in a bilateral quarantine


I find you in the belly of false stones

Unable to extract a single door or window

From your departure, the fireplace

Winks knowingly from across the room,

There is no heat left in her body,

Only hypotheticals

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‘W’r’i’t’e’r’s’ M’a’d’n’e’s’s’

Thomas M. Watt

Flowing grey, colors gloom, 

Days to nights the hours zoom.

Sitting working writing lots.

Smelling words, sniffing jots.

Tired? Never. Restless? Yes sir.

Can’t put down the dream today I don’t think this dream will go away.

Got no reason for my belief except to say I’ve grown the seed.

What can be said about passion like this – a longing a turning an obsessive fit?

Oh not too much, except what they say – a passionate man can be so unsafe.

That living obsession and fuming too much and striving too hard and churning and such,

Can lead to madness, all scrambled thoughts. Can leave you with nothing but the knowledge you’ve lost.

But oh what to do! I cry but a tear! For it’s not my fault I’m a writer, those words brought me here!

– Thomas M. Watt

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Beauty drifts

Across your eyes

Like a departing Geisha.

I have known happiness

In the alacrity

Of your fingertips lacing

Vulnerability and ecstasy


I watch

Your hair spilling

From the twilight

Like a nocturne

I press my lips

To its redolent shadows

And pray

The truth is not mine

But if you would,

Your essence favor,

I would drain

The lye from your veins


Immaculate in toxicity

You leech from my flesh

All good intention

I quest for that which

My lips can find

For overexposed dendrites

And tremulous nerves

I want to know and endow

Every inch of you

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Paper Plane Pilots

I often forget that my
life is my own

to do with as I please

And all of the people
watching either have
nothing better to do or
they care enough
to notice

But in the end it’s your
decision. Whether or not
you want to up and leave

Suffocate or breathe

When you add it all up
what’s it all worth?

What’s worth worth?

Send me all of your troubles
and I’ll set you free.

There’s always room in my
swollen heart for
one more.

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