Short poems

Suicide reality.

Suicide reality.

08/06/2018

It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.
No adios, no see you later.
Just vanished after everything like you so often had before, days turned to weeks then a message at my door.
You were no more.
You were no more.
I still find it weird.
Still expect you to just turn up demanding pizza and helping yourself.
I went to your funeral, it didn’t help.
You weren’t the type to kil yourself.
It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Dirty poetry and the lack of humans

Dirty poetry and the lack of humans.

12/06/2018

I didn’t understand the humans but I tried.
I battled in letters, a multicoloured alphabet of spaghetti o’s and alphabites, dark D’s and light Knights. (Yes I spelt that right.)
I drank Q’s and swallowed whole jars of Oreo’s and chocolate bugs.
Humans I’d understand their language was a drug.
I fell, tripped spanish and bastardised french.
I quilled latin and chinese melted on my tongue like a bad radish.
I hip hopped to happy rap whilst metal clipped and clapped to the encore of a badly spun track (these humans, they didn’t like that)
I found peace in a barn in a girl next door listening to Toby Keith whilst her head banged repeatedly against Leonard Cohen’s Book of Longing.
My mouth full of fickle lusts and moist belonging. (I still managed to fit a song in)
I don’t understand humans but I tried.
I dried tears from her eyes where the words of mourning rode chariots of death to hopes of cloning.
I ripped out her heart and put a megaphone in.
She screamed for eternity and nobody heard her heart beat.
Muted ears by Gary Jules Mad world.
Closer to the edge I trod and vanished into the chasm of her mind.
I didn’t understand humans,
But I tried.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

It’s a good morning.

It’s a good morning.

06/06/18

Sweeps in as a million butterfly fixtures.
Smiles like a totalitarian love elixir.
The potion of trust, calm and soothing.
A palm of antiquity, suave, alluring.
Devil may care, it’s you I’m charming.
Heartbeats and warm blood.
Heat spots, seeing red dots, the butterflies won’t stop and it’s a good morning.

36 degrees outside and you’re all running rampant and agile at a million miles inside my mind.
Don’t do this, I’m falling, the nothing is calling.
A corrupt void with no warning.
HoHoHo because Christmas is coming on a bad summer morning.

© G.P Williamson 2018 < hit for Instagram.

 

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Short poems

How dare I?

How dare I?

21st June 2018

It’s like every time you try you grit your teeth.

Goodbye’s alive and birthing.

Subsiding positives and self worthing.

Self Elf on a shelf capsizing.

Fake wizards and new Gods baptizing.

Fatal perception and the art of realising,

Deaths impression was a beautiful girls tender touch.

I hate and miss her so much.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

It was there in our eyes.

It was there in our eyes.

19/06/2018

Couldn’t hide it.

It was there in our eyes.

Unique obsession.

Our obsession.

Like the answer to the ultimate question.

Sore, raw and on the top of our tongues like painful trepidation.

On an expedition and the country was my self expression.

The expanse and growth intense.

Reluctance by chance and choice.

Hypnotised by sight and by voice.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Megastorm.

Megastorm.

31/05/2018

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake know that I love you and you made my earth shake.

Don’t feel obliged to stay single your whole life, you’re a gorgeous woman and a perfect wife.

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake tell the girls I love them, they made my world shake.

Don’t feel obliged to let everybody in but respect your mum’s choices. You’re the honey, she’s the queen.

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake, know that true love can never, ever break.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

A flat white please.

A flat white please.

21/05/18

I signed my life to a girl behind a line of shadows.

I didn’t know her name yet her form caressed my hand and mind.

Riddled with electric air a fire was rewired.

I allowed myself the breathing space the old excuse of age.

I immortalised her anyway.

Inside a flat white page.

© G.P Williamson 2018   <– Hit for Instagram.

 

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