Short poems

Lack of a smile.

Lack of a smile.
The only difference is the lack of a smile.
All worthwhile, dark clouds change things.
We push light out.
More doubts.
On a plus note you’ve let more out.
Grow and learn.
Equalized progression.
Less highs maybe but better navigation.
Move up without trepidation.
Quick march!
Equal and opposite reaction.
Dramatised dogma.
Why did you never speak of your father?
© G.P Williamson 2018


Two snakes.

Two snakes.
29th July 2018


I dreamt you brought two snakes home.
One as a pet and another accidentally in your handbag.
The pet did what you intended.
It lunged and gnawed at my face.
Ridiculed and marked, stained I was disgraced.
I removed the offending creature, I set it up a home.
I gave him water, bedding, now you two can be alone.
The other slumbers silently. I know he’s somewhere near.
Where exactly I am not quite clear.
He could be over there, hidden in my fears.
Covered in a blanked stitched from an angels tears.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

I always put pepper on my salty cuts.

I always put pepper on my salty cuts.


Above all else the pages falter.

They blow in the wind like a frozen altar.

Melting, corroding, falling, unresponding.

Pairs of tears cross palms where the sights of snipers leave their mark.

You can’t see them anymore, times have jaded.

The wounds are deep but scars have faded.

We sit alone in the dark even in the light of day.

Just another nuisance another grey living in a silver cloud.

I always put pepper on my salty cuts.

It may be feeble, but I don’t give up.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Devious minds

Devious minds


Sleep and begone the merry men of illustrious illusions.

How devious minds play dreams and conclusions.

Begone anxious states open plates, uneaten stale sandwiches and rotten cake.

Begone with your all’s well that ends well, time heals all wounds and don’t worry pet it will be better soon’s.

Take yourself down to that lagoon and look the dark horrors in the face as they grimace.

Shake hands with deaths claw and walk away unscathed.

Sometimes you have to walk the path someone else paved.

It’s grave.

Then return and tell me I’ll be saved.

© G.P Williamson 2018                                <————–  Click my name for my instagram!


Depression, the voice.

Depression, the voice.


You’ve got the voice of an angel, a father figure who tells stories and fables.

Picks people up, makes them feel special and more able.

My name’s depression, I’m here to turn the tables.

Mad ideas to see me as your thoughts spin through viaducts discreetly.

Drowning beyond the faith you hide behind to stay afloat, how do you really cope?

What are you gonna do when I rock the boat?

Here’s the thing, somewhere near sleep and dreaming.

That place where the you should start with and believing, yeah that calm place.

That’s where you’ll hear me screaming your name, in your voice with your words turned sour and cursed.

Make sure you slip the verse.

When you’re rock steady and able you’ll freeze.

Uncertain you’ll hit reverse.

Tell me again with your voice and your pen.

How do you stop this depression organ?

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Train wreck.

Train Wreck.


Hmm how interesting, the fear train associated with the hazard gap you’ve explained time and again.

The safety net the great pretext to beat what they haven’t conquered yet.

Him I’ll never forget.

I need to bring forwards what I’ve not achieved to date.

Goodbye Lee.

No regrets mate.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Leap of faith.

Leap of faith.

They call it a leap of faith when the shelf disappears and the yelling stops.

When you can’t help but face what was making you drop.

Broken knees, buckled gut wrench like angle grinders to fingers on a workbench.

Cut down and stood up to fall through dark mud. What’s the colour of your blood?

They say you have to face it to make it. That vulnerable sickness you feel when you want to run.

That’s step one.

Stopping and perceiving the believing of the problem.

Those issues, phobias and fears.

Newsflash: We’ve all got those.

© G.P Williamson 2018