poems

The icicle.

The icicle.

06/09/2017

A parable of jelousy.

A plague of deceit.

A fountain of faithlessness.

A wing by my feet.

A naked introduction.

A violent mob.

Death of an angel.

Frozen to the spot.

No Motion.

No Emotion.

A time dilation.

Frozen.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

No harm.

No Harm.

18/07/17

Forgetful wrath in tides of gray, a mistiness that cannot stay.

Cloudy eyes as anger rises, a thousand reds we all despise.

Beguile my youth he spits the truth appalling wretch he drawls abuse.

Clever abuse, articulate.

Comfounded.
Obtuse abuse, oval and rounded.

The people who knew it was not them,

should not be concerned nor should they be harmed so don’t fear reprisals you’ll come to no harm.

He laughed.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

That’s not a man

That’s not a man

19/07/17

Bad mouthing – real mature.

Like the MCcoys man with a manicure and fake tan.

That’s not a real man.

That’s jelousy, I dare say it.

Admittance, that’s the stereotype of the person I wish I’d been,

Someone they’d seen, famous not just a ghost in the machine.

Write parrallels where truth’s smell and I can’t tell if I’m doing well as I slip deeper down one more step to hell.

No ego! Remove that voice.

It’s the curse that causes the hearse to reverse, back up and reverse again.

You should be the mature one.

There’s only memories of things you’ve done not photograph’s.

Each breath should be like your last.

Make it, make it last.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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