poems

Thief by nature

Thief by nature

14/10/17

He wasn’t a thief by nature.

Steady job.

Hospital porter.

Generous, caring,

fathered a daughter.

Well known as dad.

Not your typical bad lad.

He wasn’t a thief by design.

Enjoyed a laugh with the boys.

Chess player’s, fresh donut’s, messy kitchen, victimless crime.

Their wasn’t much he couldn’t turn his hand to, but his eyes they didn’t shine.

Now when they married, nor when they dated and dined.

It was surreal, a unique love, sublime.

He wasn’t a thief by nature, but her….he had to have.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Advertisements
Standard
Short poems

No more.

No More.

13/10/17

She cried for her medicine and nobody listened.

The door open, free roaming a solitary expression.

Exit stage left in a world she couldn’t leave.

People exaggerated, no truth they’d believe.

Heartbroken they left through the viewing glass.

A word used too much yet applied to this lass.

She was deaf to the sound’s initially for sure.

until no abuse she could bear anymore.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Standard
poems

Three types of people.

Three types of people.

13/10/17

There’s three types of people in this world.

Those who can count and those who can’t.

Those who pout and those who fold.

Walkers and talkers and ground breaking remarkers.

Each farmer sows seeds of his own indignation, the equation pertains to who starves which nation.

I can achieve the believe but I don’t control the sedation.

Biblical proportions feed multiplication.

They strike a pose and roll the dice.

The fat lady sing but runs with the mice.

We’re undercut and over run the NHS is no longer fun.

Barbiturates in schools and criminals on street corners.

Prisoners get qualified whilst feminists hold their waters.

The world’s changed from newspapers and envelopes to a new deranged all the rage media surged public craze.

One big giant chess board and we’re the stage.

I’m five pieces down and my bishop’s got the plague.

I can’t be too specific for my sanity’s in chains.

Tattered with confusion with little baby reigns.

The crying through the night, the silence as it maims.

Falling past the faces of a thousand photo frames.

Rotating broken batons on a giant disk that twirls, half asleep and half awake the sunlight as it burns.

The only thing I know for sure……..

…..there’s three types of people in this world.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Standard
poems

Pit stop

Pit stop

13/10/17

Time to grab your conscience, grip it. Drag it to one side and nip it in the bud.

Clip it.

Cut it short.

Like an accident at work with no humour retort.

Buzz feed, feels weird.

To know the positive direction it’s going is head over heels.

All the feels, none good.

I don’t know what’s worse a** licking or spilt blood.

Moral obligation to keep them out of litigation.

I succeeded with my own augmentation the travesty is ignorance which leads to devastation.

I alone own the labour of my downfalls compensation.

The candle burns at both ends whilst I pretend again that I don’t care.

It’s too late to shed the sickly plates.

I can’t relate to regurgitated hate from people I could have called mates.

A bespoke anomaly which with tomorrow removes autonomy.

All upside down pyramids of hierarchy.

Like a bad caricature of Sons of Anarchy and we’re the parody.

I’m finding it hard to unnattach which is good it means I’m passionate, about the wrong things granted this farce is stagnant.

How do I bounce the ball back to an empty space that can’t react?

It has no soul, vein goals and no clue where the time goes.

Incapacities straight aims to make way for its own lame games.

Toe to toe the wrong way.

Redundant is all I’ve got left to say.

It’s poor enough you facilitate all you fail to eradicate.

One year and you’ll all be on the shrooms playing patty cake.

It’s officially too late.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Standard
poems

Sometimes, sometimes isn’t enough.

Sometimes, sometimes isn’t enough.

10/10/17

Sometimes the mistakes we make. The egos hit’s we take. The childish quips we make.

Those things said and done, The battles lost and won.

Each moment fraught with anxiety to alleviate the illusion of any hierarchy.

The idea of better and worse.

Times we love – those we curse.

Those times, those moments… those misdemeanors….

I’m gone plain history.

I can feel it in my bones already.

Drawn fluid like chalky milk, they won’t miss me I’m a different Ilk.

It’s that time of year again, seasonally affective – No D.

Apparently it’s all relative. Don’t make excuses for what’s subjective!

I’d paraphrase a negative portfolio with the centre stage of a grave to begin “Photodead..” My enthusiasms gone you can bury yourself instead.

I helped, changed, offered more before you reached this stage.

Too far gone, for you, for anyone.

History pages crispy,

Worn toad ink ridden, bloaty and whole heartedly coated in empathic residue.

Means the hate I feel’s not me – it’s you.

I feel your false starts, hiccups and broken hearts.

I rebuff their negativity with sarcasm humour and clarity but eventually… I’m human they get to me.

Everything has potential to be something unique and amazing but it’s gone to slide now and it’s hazy.

What could have been the first vision for that little baby, her first ambition to be like her uncle, maybe.

Instead is just crazy.

I’ll perform to the dutiful calm and do them no harm to show I’m unarmed as I fabricate peace to keep everyone warm.

Bit it won’t be the love that I had in my heard back from the start before you let it fall apart.

What you got for me? Where do I start?

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Standard
poems

The union

The union

09/10/17

Oh wow and now you decide on the illustrious inclusion!

After segregating the skill set to pinpoint your delusion.

highlighted with the training the shallow disposition of your latest bad advertisement your new acquisition.

There’s enough rubbish floating around in the sea without worrying about where they will land.

There’s enough heartbroken men in the ocean without taking the loss of your hand.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Standard