Short poems

Daisy chain my name.

Daisy chain my name.
2/08/18

I don’t want a pocket full of poseys.
I want a heartbeat in a jar.
I don’t want you wearing my skin,
But I want you not too far.
I don’t want your love creamed like a lotion,
But I’ll have you swallow ocean after ocean.
I don’t want to lay claim to fame.
I want your daisy chain to write my name.
I don’t just want those intricate lips to lay me tender.
I want to have you surrender, surrender, surrender.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

How many memories will vanish?

How many memories will vanish?

19/06/2018

How many memories will vanish?

Making googly noises in your chair.

Sticky mess in your hair.

Wondering around aimlessly like there’s no cares.

How many memory’s vanish right there?

A kiss on the forehead.

Holding hands, grab my finger.

Summers day plans.

How many memories die right there?

First steps, first word, which first comes first,

First day of school.

First blown raspberry across the room.

How many memories will vanish again?

First bus journey, first trip on a train.

First time skipping.

First dance in the rain.

How many memory’s washed away?

Our first locket like memory’s inside.

Yours might fade.

Mine I’ll pride.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Disgraceful.

Disgraceful.

07/6/2018

The disgraceful face of an angel rains manicures to pedestal faces.

Gives more than he takes and races eagles in second place.

She watches you win and smiles a rue truth.

Divine inspiration.

A pulled tooth.

Capitulate arbitrarily, leave me alone unnecessarily.

Rise with ambiguity and take your packed cases.

The disgraceful face of an angel rains manicures to pedestal faces.

You lay like sarcophagus that struts its stuff when stuck in a rut.

Stop screaming and accept my love.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

28/05/2018

I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

Time in Great Britain could be time that’s old news.

Laughing like criminals, rolling like coppers, crying like children under the covers, and I guess that’s why they call it fake news.

Because time in the cells could be time spent with you, rolling like thunder under this goverment!

I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

Free Tommy Robinson, forgive all the screws.

I guess that’s why they call it the blues.

© G.P Williamson 2018   << Hit for Instagram

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Short poems

Oceancolournicklepulp

Oceancolournicklepulp

5/5/18

Since they don’t really care about us.

Since profit in peace nothing’s changed.

There is no ease.

Since the day we caught the train after Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

The world remained the same for common people.

If only we were aeroplanes, we’d fly as one,

When we stand together.

Otherwise, it’s time for a revolution.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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poems

Hide and seek.

Hide and seek.

06/12/17

Be that soothing memory, that musical tune, the “Baby it’s a love thing”, the covers, the room.

Be the solemn promise from the sunset to the womb.

Write my name in lipstick as you dream of being wed.

The subtle hue of perfume still draws across my bed.

You didn’t answer my calls.

My messages were left for weeks.

I don’t know what you’re doing.

I don’t like this hide and seek.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

What’s the justification?

What’s the justification?

19/11/17

Happy Birthday.

Abnormality of my kin’s relationship.

Like me no direction but still enjoys the trip.

Wondering soul, broken roads, two steps backwards where will this go?

Crushed biscuits, birds nests, frozen eggs, editorial stress.

A pigment of invisible duress and once again I confess.

Wholehearted worry of pain I’d incur from that I could cause.

Knowing no fear I find solace in remorse.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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