poems

It’s something to believe in.

It’s something to believe in.

21/04/18

I used to believe in a reason.

A reason for all of the years.

A white picket fence, a yard with a swing.

A log cabin garden and a gold band ring.

I used to believe in a reason.

A reason for everything.

I was an angel of sorts.

Fixing the warts, healing the sick,teaching drunk cohorts.

One step in front of the other, baby steps, watching them walk.

They’d progress through positive stress, alleviate duress and beat all the tests and I confess.

I used to believe in a reason.

A reason for everything.

It’ll all be alright in the end they pined. Hit rewind and turn that frown upside down for the thousandth time.

Take me back to simple crimes.

When the future was golden and clouds had silver linings.

Take me back to something to believe in.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

I have a little magic trick.

I have a little magic trick.

21/04/18

You speak of trust like you understand it.

As though you weaved the sheets that darned and damned it.

You etch trust on the fabric of reason yet cannot knit.

Talk to me of trust before you claim you’ll end it.

Surely you don’t think me so easily controlled.

I have a magic trick for you.

Watch closely, behold.

Closer, closer still.

Stare until it’s crystal clear.

“Poof” I click my fingers and you,

You disappear!

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems, Short poems

Tested

Tested

09/04/2018

I watched her purity read my spirit.

I watched her thirst drink my mind.

I refueled my forgiveness when she placed her hand in mine.

She read my every thought with a finger down the line.

A sentence to the solitude “I’m not yours but you are mine”

I watched her purity read my spirit.

I succumbed unto her breast.

Was this a new reality?

Another of his tests?

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

The last line of reality.

Another one from a fallen notepad I discovered at the back of several books in my wardrobe. It had only five poems in it and the rest were blank.

The last line of reality.

25/08/13

I want to be beneath the last line of reality.

I want to see the beauty in all form of deformity.

I want to hear the whisper of mother nature’s wish.

Is it so unusual to want to live in bliss?

A bliss that’s mine, that I create.

I am your world I seal your fate.

I demonstrate with bleeding crows how I’m alive that fireball glows.

When it’s quiet I have bled and every single one is dead.

All the animals and the people merely ash and now my equal.

I’ve become what I wanted to see.

“The last line of reality”

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems, Short poems

Powerful

Powerful

04/12/17

Of all the powers you hold over man you’d think by now you’d stop make believing that I could save you.

The priest would tell you only faith could do that and you’d love him for it.

However I, I may be the worst but not by choice.

I may be the culprit but it’s by your voice.

When you have no control, what to do?

Make believe I could save you.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

Land of the free – on insanity.

Land of the free – on insanity.

01/12/17

Well you I didn’t expect to see until much later.

From another passing star.

We’d cross paths by a misaligned crater where we’d share laughs and find the same page.

Those humans, aren’t they strange?

A quizzical expression and elaborative gesture later and I’d be tamed, yours maimed and you’d be lost in memory and off to find a new game.

The depths of hell and on inside I’d ride the doomsday book where spectral hands play illusionary plans to the tune of a dead man’s band.

I look at you and I can’t stand.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Oh please, less believe.

Oh please, less believe.

20/11/2017

The strange thing is your confidence.

Your belief that you’d survive the understanding.

The knowledge that you yearn to have.

Your desire, that’s your weakness.

Your need for control, to understand, acknowledge, it’s an insecurity.

A fear of harm. Nothing more.

I guess that’s the ultimate draw.

The reason we don’t understand what we’re fighting for.

You see we both, we’ve both been there before and we’re scared of our own strength.

Drowning in those eyes and what then? Like the air I breath I don’t understand the unseen and unfound which I read constant as the world turns and I reach out.

Changing in swirls to voices that scream only the whiskey answers this half daydream.

Your face in my tablecloth – torn at the seams.

Am I awake? Or somewhere in between.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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