The hurts from church.

The hurts from church.


She couldn’t sleep for the hurts from church.

Splinters had dug deep from where her nails made skin weep.
She didn’t believe in herself.

She was in deep.

She sat stoney eyed amidst a hundred sheep who’s pain collide.

He stood in the pulpit.

Prompting their suicide unknowingly.

Another puppet of a mediocre society.

That night after prayer and hymn, evening song and lashing, the damn burst.

She grabbed a pen and started to write.

“I couldn’t sleep for the hurts of church”

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Sweets at church

Sweets at church


They sang in sweets and arms of welcome.

Holding laughs, a place that’s seldom.

They roped in gently, walking talks.

Tongues of murmur and none with forks.

They walk in rows, two by two.

All are welcome.

Me and you.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <—- Hit for Instagram!


In the doorway.

In the doorway.


I could live a thousand years she said, with her head laid on the cross.

She arched her back and read my dreams straight from my mind.

She held red roses to her chest, her other hand held mine.

I found the church deceitful and the mourners chose to stand.

She recited all my tear drops whilst that hand was in my hand.

I felt the rainbow capture the figure in that old doorway.

Capture for eternity, capture so she’d stay.

She captured all my promises like needles in the hay.

The tears stopped falling fluidly her hand had turned to ice.

The figure in the doorway moved his hand and rolled the dice.


© G.P Williamson 2017