Time will tell. I promise.

Time will tell. I promise.


From the confines.

That dark place we’d come to die.

The echo of the penny in the middle of the well.

No shaft of light no shaft at night no cleansing bath’s just mean moonlight.

Sans everything the man once said.

He never witnessed a living dead.

Here you’re not inside my head.

A rotating ball endlessly fed.

From the confines we give diligently to escape our insecurity.

Purity destroyed in a world of angry boys.

They get paid more.

The dark place we care to dwell.

Our happy place, our secure hell.

The echo of the penny in the middle of the well.

Time will tell. I’ll torture him until he speaks.

Sans lies.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Sugar Plum Candy.

Sugar Plum Candy.


Gonna get me some sugar plum candy.

A little rose petal stingy nettle come nicely.

Wrapped packs of ribbons.

Stacked gift packs that’s where the jewellery’s at.

Perfume spreads like wide legs tied to bed pegs with a red grin.

No commitment.

All the sin.

© G.P Williamson 2018



Hide and seek.

Hide and seek.


Be that soothing memory, that musical tune, the “Baby it’s a love thing”, the covers, the room.

Be the solemn promise from the sunset to the womb.

Write my name in lipstick as you dream of being wed.

The subtle hue of perfume still draws across my bed.

You didn’t answer my calls.

My messages were left for weeks.

I don’t know what you’re doing.

I don’t like this hide and seek.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

Just another tuesday night.

Just another Tuesday night.


Her knee’s stuck in the mud as the twigs lashed her face in torment of her beauty.

The sky darkened and groaned as the tree arched and moaned, gnarled hands dragged her flailing awkwards.

Falling downwards to a cloud of woods.

A flock of doves flew and they knew,

Grabbed ankles through the roots of tree shoots as the wind kicks up a new noose and she gasps as her shoes fall loose.

Her eyes roll momentarily as a raven lands and tells her soul that she’s found a new man to call home.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Graphic, poems, Short poems

My Disturbia.

My Disturbia.


You’re my Disturbia.

I’m still hurting.

Metamorphose into a dragon and kick the world hurling.

Cascaded dizziness I can’t stop.

I’m still swirling.

Head over heels has a new motion.

I’m burning.

Corrosive anticipation from your tearful eyes and blood red lips.

I wait patiently – fingertips to fingertips.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Graphic, poems

Ominous ending.

Ominous ending


I watch you at the kitchen.

From beneath my little peaked hat.

You’re drying up the dishes.

I have your cell phone in my pack.

I’m leaning on the lamp post.

It’s cold but I don’t feel.

You’re calling you your friends.

Last nights wounds are yet to heal.

I’m opposite the pub.

An ideal public place.

You’re coming down the stairs.

A perfect darkened place.

Dressed just as you left me.

Yet a little worse for wear.

A little white dress with a red ribbon in your hair.

Shoes clap down the alleyway.

I’m there without a sound.

You pick up pace hypnotically but don’t even look around.

Close enough to see the sweat on your neck.

A chain you didn’t have on this morning.

I reach out a hair palm and you jump in fear and warning.


“You left this at my place”


© G.P Williamson 2017