Probably should admit that I was wrong.
Different story but the same old song.
Being human and all has it’s disadvantages.
Falling for the wrong ideas stroke appendages.
I’d use another word for aspiration but couldn’t find one.
Don’t worry, I won’t the moment’s gone.
Dross and remorseful I swear.
A glass eye in a round bowl forever looking at itself endlessly spinning.
If it’s looking at itself shouldn’t their be two of them?
How could it look at itself if there’s TWO of them…
Who are you?
A second thought.
Middle class honors degree V.S for safety’s sake a geek.
Like trying to compare a quazar to say – a square.
I took a shot and didn’t dare look.
It wasn’t there, I tried.
At least this time it was by the book.
I was mourning in my own addiction if I’m brutally honest.
Something I rarely am with myself.
An old habit of self destruction by any means.
Self harm doesn’t always come in a cutting form.
Don’t sound those horns I’m not crying for that type of alarm.
Although you should be concerned but not in that way.
I was hiding from reason, from memory. A far away day.
Riding a cloud of wonder astride an old rocking horse.
I blame myself, there’s no escape in remorse.
Nine months ago exactly if I’m accurate.
Irate, angry and hurt and yet hopelessly stagnate.
I couldn’t write about it. I tried it didn’t work.
How do I write about why I’m here and you’re not?
Throw myself into work it will all soon be forgot.
I don’t want you to remember – I already ask alot.
Perception is unified the marriage is existential.
Pain should be halfed not experimental.
I’ve always achieved great things in great ways.
I never lay with demons and fought strays.
I might not be the right fit but I’m on the same page.
Clarity unfamiliar in an honest old sage.
Bitter nights twist again the agony of youth.
Pictures of daughters brought down by brothers and fathers.
Pregnant women who corrode and fester their waters.
Worse – unborn sons and daughters.
Clipping and clopping that horse clicks against wood.
It’s countryside inside throughout painted in blood.
The motion is reckless I’ve rocked on past a dream.
There’s nobody to hear me and I cannot scream.
I’ll pretend that I’m angry at those for which I care.
Then justify my actions with why they’re not there.
It makes complete sense to take it out on the boss.
Then I can appear completely – useless.
The victim card is played and again it wears thin.
I’ll spit on my grave and delve deep down within.
I’d only come out for essentials and water.
If it wasn’t for the face of my beautiful daughter.
Her eyes hold the meaning, a meaning of life.
I cannot explain my meaning, nor can I explain my wife.
forgiveness lives in meadows the like I’ve seen alot.
There’s some wrong’s which I’ve made right,
and some which I cannot.
Beautiful swallow’s alive in green pastures.
Milking the sunday’s for each silly old actor.
Taking off for a journey to give an indication of redemption.
They aren’t flying up they’re flying into temptation.
Success is a mindset molded from fiction.
Alive on a page which jumps with trepidation.
Zero hour in conclusion and solid of mind.
Neither are real and neither do bind.
My friend the rag and bone man created gold from clay.
I offered him a sleeping place he said he couldn’t stay.
I saw him leave the cemetary where I had chose to lay.
He’d collected all my memories and he threw them all away.
Copyright G.P Williamson 2017