Short poems

Tore my house down.

Tore my house down.

25/04/2018

And there we’ll go to another wedding, another baby shower, another “Isn’t this fun?” another happy hour with statue faces, airs and graces, elongated gestures and food you can’t take where nothing’s out of place and there’s nothing I want more than to scream “What a f*cking bore!”

Take me out of this race I can’t help the faces, I run backwards and trip “Just get a grip” as I cry mercy and quit because you know what? I’m not over it. I never will be. When you left you tore my house down and chewed up the foundations.

Please fly with the angels and play with the daisy’s.

Goodnight baby.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Cloak it.

Cloak it.

21/04/18

I didn’t take the cloak off.

I tried to keep you hidden.

Broken little pieces tied with an unbilical ribbon.

I didn’t let the seeds grow.

Didn’t water the plants.

Couldn’t tame the cactus where the thorns sprung themselves out.

I hurt myself with memories of what I could not achieve.

Building on the demons in a world of make believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

How fragile life is.

How fragile life is.

31/04/2018

More nervous because everything’s fine again.

I can shine and then go against his plan with tiny army men.

Waged war with a pen, threw myself at that wall and it hurt again.

The only blazing equation for this sanitary station as the O.C.D’s raging is to hand all my pages in!

I’d love to make believe I’m safe every night as I sleep.

Love to speculate the hands of fate, turn and everyone makes it before they get out.

That each has a turn at fame and riches, quality of life and fun filled bitches.

I’d love to believe any lie that keeps me high on the deceitful cloud nine, insisting my world is fine.

Instead I cry and cling tight to a ghostly image, I rage fight as truth and science pack my nightmares tight.

So hard to trust it when you know how fragile life is.

It can start and stop with a kiss.

A broken heart or a heartbeat missed.

It can live or die on a thistle or nettle.

It can traverse the universe like something special.

It can die in an eye blink of “why’s”, denial and tell me lies.

Make the world safe again stop the cries.

It’s so hard to trust when you don’t know where the knife is.

It’s so hard to trust when you know how fragile life is.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Seven story building

Seven story building.

23/03/2018

A top a seven story building stands a seven story man. With seven story windows and a bible in his hand.

A seven story crisp packet blows way down below the street.

Where a seven story drop awaits beneath his feet.

A seven story inpact awaits with a patient curse.

Amidst a seven story ambulance the police and a nurse.

A top a seven story building stands a seven story man.

From a seven story building a bible hits the ground.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

A thousand shades of dust.

A thousand shades of dust.

23/03/18

I never knew I’d make it.

I guess that you didn’t either.

I rushed a thousand lovers, none of which were mine.

I never knew I’d make it.

My lonely was unjust.

Drinking til all hours in the clenched fist of mistrust.

I never knew I’d make it before I turned to dust.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems, Short poems

I fear you won’t get read.

I fear you won’t get read.

23/03/2018

I fear you won’t get read.

Like the unmarried woman.

The weak man, the honest government employee.

Shamed in a stereotype of mediocrity.

I fear you won’t get read.

The untouched in a kinky bed.

The feta cheese that didn’t make it.

The garden we never raked.

Half done and all completed sat on a spinning pebble by God’s great feet.

I fear you won’t get read.

An eye for an eye and I’m seeing red.

28th March and twenty six years on.

I still see how you bled and still feel how you’re gone.

I fear you won’t get read.

What have I done?

Four years and an umarked grave. The only grace in a button called save.

Still tomorrow IS guaranteed, is the type of illusion which we need to believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Macc Canal

Macc Canal

23/03/2018

Saying what you mean.

Meaning what you say.

Stray dreams of grey dogs by park benches and squashed frogs.

How sticklebacks have mean faces on Macc Canal of all places.

Trust disgraced on the back of shoe laces hidden by my childlike self.

Pump up sneakers and no place to be.

I didn’t say trainers – Americanize me.

I dream a dream of time gone by.

A glare a peak and then I fly.

It is too much to watch them die.

I still understand but don’t know why.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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