How fragile life is.

How fragile life is.


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


Age onset perspectives of positive discrepancies.

Age onset perspectives of positive discrepancies.


The older I get the more I understand less.

The more I leave my body to wonder around alone like a ghost in a poor mans home.

One day she’ll die and I’ll be lost forever but today we argue and pretend that day will never come.

She’ll regret her words and I’ll regret some.

We’ll both regret the hurts but whilst she’s here I’ll come undone.

Make judgements about it being new baby blues and all that hogwash and tish.

These are speculative tendencies I usually blow a bird to a “Sit on this”

This time I’ve no time. It’s much more than this.

It’s an age onset thing like religious parables inside a diamond ring.

Like marriage vows with no V and an R.

Like buying a Porsche when you can’t drive a car.

It’s more of the everything and less of depression.

It’s I can’t lift a finger because there’s just too much pressing.

It’s a song and a dance when the rainbows are out.

The love of two girls when the doves scream and shout.

It’s having the feet but nowhere to walk.

It’s challenging behaviours and nobody to talk.

Fastening seatbelts but not going too fast.

Being scared of heights whilst flat on the ground.

It’s screaming at night without making a sound.

It’s for those who have everything because they came through it with demons.

It’s the 28th March and I still pretend you’re just sleeping.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Nothing more

Nothing more.


I could see the innocence.

I could feel your warmth.

I could sense your touch

But nothing more.

I could hear you stir.

I could see you move.

I could watch you wave

But nothing more.

I could see them light up at your presence.

I could feel our distance manifest.

I could not touch a feeling, claim a belief in or smile unless leaving and……nothing more.

I was a rich man gone poor.

Like the dot had stopped but the illness prevailed.

I was trying to love but the how had set sailed….and nothing more.

I could see your perfection.

Could claim adoration.

I held with intention….but nothing more.

I stand a dramatic pose to a man I despised.

A mirror I faced to a man of lies.

Tears of hate

but nothing more.

I hated and hated despised and negated.

Photoshopped memories to empty church gates.

Grabbed myself by the balls and kicked myself back into shape

but nothing more.

I praised my achievements.

grieved for believements.

Stood up to my demons and screamed “I am not leaving!”

But nothing more.

I love you forever.

I love you, you treasure.

I love you small fry.

I love that you’re mine

And nothing more.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Book of Shadows.

Book of Shadows.


My book of shadows are so dark. I can’t see anything in them anymore.

A shadow of my former self. Where even the darkness ceases to exist.

It’s from this place, this void of voids, that I’m expected to continue to enlist.

With magic, dark magic, black butterfly kisses.

Chained to walls with dismissive unions. Holocaust delusions.

Nasa, Politicians, The Pentagon, where’s the rest of the world even gone?

Book of Shadows and all that’s gone before.

Close the book, close the door.

Existence is perceptual, a hierarchy of numb, with tuned out silences and harsh whispers,

Atmospheric plunges and wishing I could miss her.

Too far, too long and too late.

Ding dong turn the hands of fate.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Black boxes – Depression in a shape.

Black boxes – Depression in a shape.


Boxes of boxes.

Walls of black boxes which unlock to keep stock of chores and pocket troll wars.


Mountains and fountains, foundations, daunting foundations of chanting boxes.

Open doors, several scores, shouting, chanting, wanting more.

Boxes wars, boxes claws.

Boxes you’ve never seen before.

Boxes with fangs who’s hair overhangs.

Boxes with white eyes who stare through dark nights.

Boxes with crispy clear voices that tell lies.

Boxes from which I can’t hide.

Boxes which ride a scarlet demon from sinful pleasure to divine….

….Fill in the last line for me…the boxes are calling.

© G.P Williamson 2018


The depressive monk.

The depressive monk.


Everyone writes of a new year.

They pen forgiveness in their hearts for the pang of guilt.

The twinge of not meeting their own idle expectations.

Then like the poor writers we are we close the book immediately ending the story and hoping to do better next year.

I tell lies, that’s not the new year we write.

It is the old year we feel.

The new year is just the lie we tell ourselves in the hope of feeling something next year.

I digress, she wore ginger like a rainbow that made her eyes glow.

She echoed slender fingers, pale where her lashes flickered, transfixed, mirrored.

I asked her name and she stirred like morning coffee.

I didn’t know her.

She’d never love me.

© 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