Short poems

As a child (@BymePoetry)

As a child (@BymePoetry)

I originally posted this as a reply to a post on Instagram @ByMePoetry


As a child I lied, cried and died a thousand times.

I rhymed lines for fictional crimes to keep my head designed to stay fine.

I’m thirty six.

I lied over eighteen thousand times.

The world still isn’t mine.

But I found a place, a methodology, a kind of gold heart pump, a reflexology.

As a child I lied, cried and died a thousand times.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Confidence capsized.

Confidence capsized.


Confidence capsized only truth through a lovers eyes supporting viaducts that do not work.

No transport chain, no way to work.

Confidence abundant change the word, pick up the trident.

Shower the world with aqueduct tears.

For you, for the dancing for the cheers.

Same again and same again moody blues to numb the pain.

Meditation, witchcraft, therapy and a forced laugh.

Age old clouds in my head surely I’d be better off – wait a minute, time to sin?

Welcome old friend fate, let it win. Who’s to say it’ll have the last laugh?

You might feel stupid but you’re certainly not daft.

The glint in your eyes from power not cries you know that’s where the confidence lies.

It’s not in the lines nor all in a book it’s deep in the soul you’ll find in my look.

© G.P Williamson 2017




Little miss underconfident.

Little miss underconfident.


He envisioned her thoughts as though they were his own.

Each time he guessed and each time he was wrong.

The silence was deafening but her force was strong.

He read her features like braille without even a touch.

The tips of his heartstrings vibrated as such.

The sound of her breathing, the hit of her presence,

the light of her eyes – the epitome of elegance.

The delicate pages like the start of a tale.

I stood transfixed as she went to set sail.


© G.P Williamson 2017



poems, Short poems

Open doors. – Short.

Open doors.-short.


Funny how some people close the door because they need to for a time.

Some close it out of fear,from experience and from need.

occasionally though some close that door as a sign.

A need to be freed.

When choosing misery is your saving grace.

Well, then you’ve already lost face.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Music neck.

Music Neck


He had a music note on his neck.

He spoke with such respect.

I couldn’t help but wonder had he suffered much neglect.

His temperament raised questions from answers that he sought.

He had the kind of wisdom which wouldn’t age or be taught.

He asked of all my reasons and yet never spoke of his.

He’d learnt to listen softly but not yet learnt to live.

I was reminded softly of a very special bird.

I know it’s rather strange and somewhat quite absurd.

Yet a phoenix I saw rising from the ashes where I’d been.

I watched him scramble upwards on the power of his dreams.

He rose with subtle dignity.

I watched the thunder clap.

They shook my hand and promised me that one day they’d come back.


© G.P Williamson 2017


poems, Short poems

She forgets his name.

She forgets his name.


She simply forgets his name.

The smell of him.

His clothes, the fragrance he wore.

How he walked, danced.

How he spoke, how he swore.

They all just ceased to be – like before.

Before he existed, before he was real,

before she enlisted, before she could feel.

Before she was herself.

She knew her own worth.

before she had full love.

before she was cursed.

He simply ceased to be as she walked away.


© G.P Williamson 2017