poems

Like me.

Like me.

05/10/17

Like me winter drifts through naturally.

Each year leaving its mark amongst its echo of memories.

Like me the sting sits warm as memories turn cold.

Reminders of curled toes, cocoa noses and ghostly pictures of spring roses.

Places adept at being close to our heart.

Another year over, another year starts.

Like me the snow cloaks, warms and protects at least once a year.

Until I set sail, curtail the emotional derailment in lieu of Christmas and all its merriment.

I guess I was never one for personal development.

Where’s the man who paints with his heart a family he can’t touch?

Where’s my own home? Photographic disasters, mistakes and a thankyou very much.

Like me winter drifts through crisp and clear.

Like me, just once a year.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

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poems

That’s not a man

That’s not a man

19/07/17

Bad mouthing – real mature.

Like the MCcoys man with a manicure and fake tan.

That’s not a real man.

That’s jelousy, I dare say it.

Admittance, that’s the stereotype of the person I wish I’d been,

Someone they’d seen, famous not just a ghost in the machine.

Write parrallels where truth’s smell and I can’t tell if I’m doing well as I slip deeper down one more step to hell.

No ego! Remove that voice.

It’s the curse that causes the hearse to reverse, back up and reverse again.

You should be the mature one.

There’s only memories of things you’ve done not photograph’s.

Each breath should be like your last.

Make it, make it last.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Coffin Lid

Coffin Lid

24/06/2017

I can’t be the one to close the coffin lid.

I can’t because I’ll remember your eyes.

The way they used to look at me, and how they look at me now in my mind’s eye when I’ve not even thought about closing yet for fear,

fear of penetrating the cling film lid of your beauty.

Beauty which held a building, made a flat a home an apartment a womb, mind a soul and a family a tomb.

Beauty which would blossom if you’d let us live.

Forget it.

Instead we make beds for empty spaces, time killing eclipses where legs don’t run races.

Sweet goodnights with no kisses and two faces.

I can’t close the lid for it holding the rose we proposed.

The butterfly kisses on cake facet mixes and wall’s we affixed, painting’s transfixed of photo’s – we exist!

Before we betwixt, half way down the list where now you resist the touch of my kiss.

I can’t close the lid.

Rise from the ashes!

This family bashing is causing alarm our foundation is crashing whilst you’re just relaxing, doesn’t it mean a thing?

This wedding ring?

Your pheonix won’t sing to your last hopeful king?

Suffocating in style the cover’s worthwhile.

The writing does suffer as I watch all the others, Where I seem to smother you, still do not bother.

Aaaargh! I’d growl to the ether if the spirits were kind but this is not our first time at rewind.

I’m better off unable.

A dead horse in a stable.

I’m here to be used but I’d rather be intune to a respected connection a belonging with you.

I can’t close the lid.

F*ck you I’m past caring.

My daughter’s my heartbeat and that life I am sharing.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Naughty word (Graphic Short)

Naughty word.

02/06/2017

I called him a naughty word because like a glove it fit so tightly.

Tightly like a hand clasped firm around his throat.

Squeezing the truth like verbal juice from caricature to fact into a hypothetical bible of purity.

Purity – the truth of the words rather than the words themselves.

I called him a naughty word because like a glove it fit.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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Fiery Angel

Fiery Angel

03/06/2017

How you rise from my palm face up when I’m alarmed.

Concentrating on the pain, the endurance, again and again.

You rise, I feel the pop as your little legs leave my hand.

The tickle as your wings accidently caress my skin.

Then you heat, you glow.

The burning, oh the burning begins yellow,

then red then not quite white.

I can see softly the hover before a darting flight.

Firelight like a shooting star on it’s way to a target.

Locked on, control gone.

Once it’s released it’s bygone’s be bygone.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Basic Chaos

chaoslinewalking

13/05/2017

I’m at my worst when I’m crying, breaking and the earth’s shaking.

I’m at my worst when you hurt girls, with no reason why.

They run and hide and I tear inside as the earth opens wide.

I’m at my worst with no goals, seeing shallow souls as no hope grows, and you’re building totem poles?

You’re creating a hierachy?

A regimented scheme of decievers and daydreamers who bully high school kids and none believers?

Kicking and punching as he gasps for air trying to move, no time lapse there.

Be free, let me be, what did I do to you? Why me?

I can’t subsidize the pain inside but climb higher, no higher, you’ll see why.

Let’s take a ride.

You’re gonna look in the mirror and foretell your own suicide.

I’m through saying prayers,

I’m done making pacts,

Here’s my sword laid bare let’s see how the devil reacts.

Spontanious unity how chaos reaches clarity.

Then it’s clear to see how this mix can be the answer to my new found calamity.

Join me.

let’s father the fathers, parent the partners and squash all those petty worthless dramas.

Work alone or in sync I don’t care what you drink,

but if you use poison then make sure you think who you send to the brink.

Existence itself!

A none lyrical metaphor.

There’s no meaning true but…

….more war.

Fighting for things that are what you reap,

That aren’t yours to keep.

When you’ve been digging real deep but still fight in your sleep.

I awoke to a fall the drop screamed through the hall as I bounced off the walls was I there at all?

A dream in a dream my reality everlasting, fictional people all me, who are we casting?

My army eloped because they couldn’t cope, with the P.T.S.D and the lack of clear hope.

They all think it’s a joke.

I’m sorry, you didn’t come for a basic spread.

To read between the lines of the membrane in my head.

You’re not a sheep not easily led.

So let me raise a golden goblet on a chair of fine oak to celebrate your welcome.

Let’s praise your humanity in humouring me and rejoice in splendor and glory.

I’d try harder but in all honesty, you bore me.

Spontanious applause is the end of the story.

G.P Williamson 2017.

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poems

Loss & confusion – A journey of self exploration, humour and stupidity.

feather

Probably should admit that I was wrong.
Different story but the same old song.
Being human and all has it’s disadvantages.
Falling for the wrong ideas stroke appendages.

I’d use another word for aspiration but couldn’t find one.
Don’t worry, I won’t the moment’s gone.
Dross and remorseful I swear.
Damn.

A glass eye in a round bowl forever looking at itself endlessly spinning.
If it’s looking at itself shouldn’t their be two of them?
How could it look at itself if there’s TWO of them…
Who are you?
A second thought.
Shut up.

Middle class honors degree V.S for safety’s sake a geek.
Like trying to compare a quazar to say – a square.
I took a shot and didn’t dare look.
It wasn’t there, I tried.
At least this time it was by the book.

I was mourning in my own addiction if I’m brutally honest.
Something I rarely am with myself.
An old habit of self destruction by any means.
Self harm doesn’t always come in a cutting form.
Don’t sound those horns I’m not crying for that type of alarm.

Although you should be concerned but not in that way.
I was hiding from reason, from memory. A far away day.
Riding a cloud of wonder astride an old rocking horse.
I blame myself, there’s no escape in remorse.

Nine months ago exactly if I’m accurate.
Irate, angry and hurt and yet hopelessly stagnate.
I couldn’t write about it. I tried it didn’t work.
How do I write about why I’m here and you’re not?

Throw myself into work it will all soon be forgot.
I don’t want you to remember – I already ask alot.
Perception is unified the marriage is existential.
Pain should be halfed not experimental.

I’ve always achieved great things in great ways.
I never lay with demons and fought strays.
I might not be the right fit but I’m on the same page.
Clarity unfamiliar in an honest old sage.

Bitter nights twist again the agony of youth.
Pictures of daughters brought down by brothers and fathers.
Pregnant women who corrode and fester their waters.
Worse – unborn sons and daughters.

Clipping and clopping that horse clicks against wood.
It’s countryside inside throughout painted in blood.
The motion is reckless I’ve rocked on past a dream.
There’s nobody to hear me and I cannot scream.

I’ll pretend that I’m angry at those for which I care.
Then justify my actions with why they’re not there.
It makes complete sense to take it out on the boss.
Then I can appear completely – useless.

The victim card is played and again it wears thin.
I’ll spit on my grave and delve deep down within.
I’d only come out for essentials and water.
If it wasn’t for the face of my beautiful daughter.

Her eyes hold the meaning, a meaning of life.
I cannot explain my meaning, nor can I explain my wife.
forgiveness lives in meadows the like I’ve seen alot.
There’s some wrong’s which I’ve made right,
and some which I cannot.

Beautiful swallow’s alive in green pastures.
Milking the sunday’s for each silly old actor.
Taking off for a journey to give an indication of redemption.
They aren’t flying up they’re flying into temptation.

Success is a mindset molded from fiction.
Alive on a page which jumps with trepidation.
Zero hour in conclusion and solid of mind.
Neither are real and neither do bind.

My friend the rag and bone man created gold from clay.
I offered him a sleeping place he said he couldn’t stay.
I saw him leave the cemetary where I had chose to lay.
He’d collected all my memories and he threw them all away.

 

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

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