poems, Short poems

Defamation of character.

Defamation of character.

20/11/17

Defamation of character.

I had it tattooed on my soul.

Convict myself of Reason.

Not the Treason you would know.

Allow myself a little space.

A somewhere to roam free.

I’d comfort away our solitude but that would calm the sea.

We cannot etch the current.

The page cannot be penned.

We’ll start with no beginning and begin without an end.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

What can I say?

What can I say?

20/11/17

How did she generate such heat?

Blue dress all plain, hair up, nothing sassy just tied to one side with black tights she held right.

My gaze, dark haze, perfect eyes and unfazed.

Intrigued more than daunted, more unhinged than haunted.

Slightly off balance like, how can I walk away questioning if I should stay?

She had the type of quivering figure a man would risk his home for.

She’d have it all with a bow on top.

Red like her lips, lose myself but the show would go on.

Committed for an hour in eternity, the question aired on a sea of nothingness.

“Would she return to me?”

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Lost

(Lost is a song title by Chris Young the country artist. Which although not the inspiration for this, did come to mind after writing it. Something about the neverendingness of being lost was inviting, if you get the chance listen to the song – he’s brilliant the writing below however is totally unrelated)

Lost

20/11/2017

If nothing else the little revelation merely makes me want to protect them more.

With my own book of folklore. The understanding of crimson compassion, a vein filled obsession at your over reaction.

Hesitate for a fraction. Drown in the ocean of your doom.

You and I forever lost in this round spinning room.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

 

 

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poems, Short poems

Every kind of right.

Every kind of right.

20/11/2017

Ah sorceress now it all makes sense.

The context, the empath the nuance manifest.

Sorceress digest, I understand the truth of your duress.

God bless.

She fell from Grace, literally like bang splat the midwife even had to over react.

Ptooey all good bad dreams and blue blood.

They didn’t know but Karma would.

She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter on the seventh day of a mathematical hangover.

They made great claims on mind games, people tamed deranged strays.

Tattoo’s on hemlines to mark out which girls are mine.

Refine like red wine all red lips at play time.

A spiritesk atmosphere of echoing light.

It’s all every kind of wrong and every kind of right.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Oh please, less believe.

Oh please, less believe.

20/11/2017

The strange thing is your confidence.

Your belief that you’d survive the understanding.

The knowledge that you yearn to have.

Your desire, that’s your weakness.

Your need for control, to understand, acknowledge, it’s an insecurity.

A fear of harm. Nothing more.

I guess that’s the ultimate draw.

The reason we don’t understand what we’re fighting for.

You see we both, we’ve both been there before and we’re scared of our own strength.

Drowning in those eyes and what then? Like the air I breath I don’t understand the unseen and unfound which I read constant as the world turns and I reach out.

Changing in swirls to voices that scream only the whiskey answers this half daydream.

Your face in my tablecloth – torn at the seams.

Am I awake? Or somewhere in between.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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I knew!

I knew!

20/11/17

I couldn’t pen you.

Couldn’t commit you to paper, couldn’t write before.

Make you more real – forever.

I knew from that first time you’d try to read the things I hide.

Try to see beside the bedside lamps and mirrored signs.

Candlelight, the girl’s I’ve wined, perforated, broken, along the line. I wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You wanted mine.

My painful cries you’d read line by line. I couldn’t find the quick rewind, unintroduced go back in time.

I’d hide, I’d hide a thousand rainbows from the ethos to the cosmos.

Paint a million portraits, contact a thousand floor shows to run.

To run from the things your eyes know.

Run.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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