And she was gone.

And she was gone.


He just stood there in the pouring rain amidst a field of dreams all normal with insane eyes.

All plain but behind the mind a loss of control he kept trying to find.

He looked on and she was gone.

To a place she never was.

His neverending neverlass. A gone that never the less had begun and so he found her in the emptiness within every location.

It drove him perplexed with purple pupils  pirouetting persuasive patterns from placid places to personal pleasure.

He just stood there in the pouring rain amidst a field of dreams.

All normal with insane eyes.

He came alive.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Tore my house down.

Tore my house down.


And there we’ll go to another wedding, another baby shower, another “Isn’t this fun?” another happy hour with statue faces, airs and graces, elongated gestures and food you can’t take where nothing’s out of place and there’s nothing I want more than to scream “What a f*cking bore!”

Take me out of this race I can’t help the faces, I run backwards and trip “Just get a grip” as I cry mercy and quit because you know what? I’m not over it. I never will be. When you left you tore my house down and chewed up the foundations.

Please fly with the angels and play with the daisy’s.

Goodnight baby.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Cloak it.

Cloak it.


I didn’t take the cloak off.

I tried to keep you hidden.

Broken little pieces tied with an unbilical ribbon.

I didn’t let the seeds grow.

Didn’t water the plants.

Couldn’t tame the cactus where the thorns sprung themselves out.

I hurt myself with memories of what I could not achieve.

Building on the demons in a world of make believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Does she dance with you?

Does she dance with you?


I wonder if you’re in the oil of the bubbles which she blows.

Wonder of your strengths, how you’d stand on tiptoes.

I think about you writing.

Would you learn from her at all?

Would craft be your magic or the writing on the wall?

Would your smile be just like hers?

That thought tends to hurt.

If I blow my daughter bubbles in a rainbow around the world.

She dances in the bubbles where there stands just the two.

So justified and happy, innocent with no clue.

“Daddy blow the bubbles!”

I wonder,

Does she dance with you?

© G.P Williamson 2018


Heartless woman

Heartless woman.


She lay half broken.

Legs akimbo with her skirt rucked up and her heart beside her on the floor.

Dragging herself to her knees she clutched the useless meat in both hands and stared in bare hope and anguish.

“Pump you b*tch!” She mentally called to a world that had never listened before.

I’m not your tortured soul.

Your bit of rough.

Your friday night.

I’ve had enough!

I’m more, I’m me.

I’m the cure, I want to be free.

“Pump! Pump for me.” She squeezed once for hope and once in vein then in anger again and again.

The blood was red the meat was thick she thumped it hard, pounded it quick.

Flowing tears with empty mind.

A life that flashed before her eyes.

It hit rewind with every slow torturous minute.

Replayed every regret, tear and grimace.

The empty nights holding her stomach with dreams of what could be.

The emptier nights holding her stomach dreaming of what was, and the worse nights clutching her heart for what should have been.

A black tar filled hole resided in her chest where a sliver of her soul still yearned to burn.

We never quit as teachers but we never seem to learn.

She stood up empty and cold as remnant of her heart lay strewn across the floor.

She turned towards the light.

No choice but to walk away in defeat.

Several moments later…

… That heart began to beat.

© G.P Williamson 2018


A diary for the mind.

A diary for the mind.


Like an online diary for the mind.

Poke my head out then hide.

Throw bombs to collide in a weird kind of self destruction.

A suicide.

Not a matter to jest with.

I’ve known two who didn’t live and to anything my heart I’d give to have five beats more for the why’s I live.

My online diary spoke to me, grabbed hands and lunged, clasped me.

Beneath rose thorns and bramble weeds.

Rusty iron frames and dirty green leaves.

Pulled under tightly, thirsty to breathe.

Drowning air, a suffocating freeze.

Moonlit shadows of make believe.

Like an online diary, for the mind.

© G.P Williamson 2018


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