Short poems

Ironic Hierachy.

Ironic Hierachy.


There’s a random hierachy in the sweet smell of death, where ironically air which consistantly and effortlessly does nothing becomes powerful enough to sustain the very life it takes.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Short poems

Paper cut – Graphic Short.

Paper cut.


You were like the paper cut that never healed.

A fake relationship, you weren’t real.

Something that shouldn’t have happened.

Clubbed to death like a baby seal.


© G.P Williamson 2017

Short poems

No more.

No More.


She cried for her medicine and nobody listened.

The door open, free roaming a solitary expression.

Exit stage left in a world she couldn’t leave.

People exaggerated, no truth they’d believe.

Heartbroken they left through the viewing glass.

A word used too much yet applied to this lass.

She was deaf to the sound’s initially for sure.

until no abuse she could bear anymore.


© G.P Williamson 2017

Short poems

The cold of death.

The cold of death.


There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.

rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.

Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.

Where home-grown ropes are sewn.

Where moral justification is two-tone.

Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.

It was cold there, underwater.

She’s another innocent man’s daughter.


© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

The nightmare takes her (Graphic short)



The nightmare takes her.

Two men or so called.

Infront of her parents.


They heard.

Cried through a needle.

All couldn’t be spared.

Laid out on full view all naked and bare.

Taken to places she couldn’t not go.

How to survive in a world she doesn’t know.


© G.P Williamson 2017



A lovely lullaby (Graphic Short)

A lovely lullaby (Graphic Short)


A distraught lullaby crawls through the night, howling beyond the windows to ears which seek the forgiveness of a virgin and the worship of a hundred ruined nuns.

A lullaby which holds your mind gently like a womb cradles life.

As though magnetic in stature you’re the muscle, the soul, the being, the nature.

A lullaby which metamorphed into a creature, a creature which grew to fondle memories. Create doubts, blot out the screams you can’t live without.

A lullaby, hush little baby don’t you cry, mummy’s not coming home tonight.

A lullaby which couldn’t right a wrong. No matter the intention a lullaby is just a song.

Haunting, daunting, compassionate and rewarding.

A lullaby can bring you joy. The scabbard to rest your sword in.

Allow my ink, my ilk, my worthless self contained, maimed pages of blod given woe to melt into a face. The face of innocence in red on the page before you as you listen intently for all you don’t wish to hear.

A distraught lullaby.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Smiling at the window.

Smiling at the window.


It’s the face in the window you never saw.

The white smiling lips and hollow eyes.

You have a way of pretending it wasn’t there.

Like a second thought,

a half hazard chance that it wasn’t reality.

Your subconsciounce is laughing at you.

It knows the truth and how much you won’t like it.

It’s beneath every blanket.

Behind every cupboard door.

In each dark corner of every dark room.

Beneath each floor.

In the mirror.

Below the sound of the dripping tap.

In every time you don’t know how to react.

Forgive my sins for yesterday I was your everything.

Whatever you’re believing I don’t know but passionless existance – that smiles at the window.


© G.P Williamson 2017