Short poems

Name that pill.

Name that pill.

28th June 2018

It took just one pill to understand the world in totality.
The mediocre conundrum of our own sanity.
The reasons we take woman for wife.
The reasons for love.
The meaning of live.
Progression to trust, society a must.
The very reason of universe from dust.
One solitary pill concoction made from the lips of a brown eyes goddess, a robin’s last breath,
A church bells chime at a quarter to nine.
The last suppers’ last drop of wine.
A murdered womans motherhood the hands of a bludgeoned father mixed within the salty seas of another tear filled daughter.
It took just one pull to understand the world in totality.

© G.P Williamson 2018





It’s time to burn it down.

Choked up dark clouds.

Foundation falling around like quadriplegic jelly.

A place I used to stand.

An oath of unity – Profound.

The next square in a new turn around – circular dependence.

Eternity in a ring.

I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of depression to sing.

Worse case in a bad state is sob stories are out.

So’s swearing.

So that murderous shit I wrote is too late.

Turn around and start again.

Four years – that’s some bad fate.

© G.P Williamson 2018



I guess.

I guess.


I guess I’m mad because there’s not enough time for me to watch your grandchildren’s grandchildren grow old.

I know that’s nature.It’s not wrong.

I guess I’m mad, but I’m strong. You don’t have any time at all and here we are twenty-six years on.

A father, a friend, a lover, a son. Figuratively speaking what have you done?

You have no time. The sun’s not shone.

I guess I’m mad time’s not like cake. I can’t make more.

My slices you can’t take.

It’s probably for the best. I can’t bake.

I guess I’m mad, each year it’s still too late for me to save you.

Too late to fight the good fight make the wrong things right to say “Look mum here’s my daughter, hold her tight”

It’s too late, and the world’s still not right.

We still squabble about power and fame.

Monopoly games the E.U and bullshit time frames.

We imprison dog dads and comics for saying “Fags” and good dad’s who lose their kids to matter of fact lies from drunk b*tches with sperm eyes and each time we don’t kill a pedophile or inprison a killer a part of me hides, dies and lays dormant at the bottom of a dark ocean of doom to spark torment.

I guess I’m mad because like these comics I talk sh*t to to get a reaction sometimes. Choose words that aren’t wise and believe free speech should smack you between the eyes and have poetical justice.

The choice to blur the rules, change Haiku’s to two four two’s and do things others dare not do.

With words fool, then there’s you. Raping and killing, abusing the woman. The thrill you still walk the line of your doing no time and they wonder why I’m anti establishment they’re half of the crime.

I’m mad you won’t be read.

Mad you’re in the land of the free.

Give me three minutes.

Come take a walk with me.

© G.P Williamson 2018



A name is a title.

A name is a title.


There’s so much that needs to come out from recent events all jumbled and cluttered.

Scattered magazines of my mothers.

My child holding my thumb.

Paying the rent and memories of mum.

Mostly it’s fairness and expectation.

Hard work and piss poor delegation.

I had to stop until the anger was wasted.

I know deep down it’s all about Tracy.

I never used your name before in something public.

It feels good to bring you to life.

A hundred ways a metaphor.

Only one god damn knife.

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Short poems

I fear you won’t get read.

I fear you won’t get read.


I fear you won’t get read.

Like the unmarried woman.

The weak man, the honest government employee.

Shamed in a stereotype of mediocrity.

I fear you won’t get read.

The untouched in a kinky bed.

The feta cheese that didn’t make it.

The garden we never raked.

Half done and all completed sat on a spinning pebble by God’s great feet.

I fear you won’t get read.

An eye for an eye and I’m seeing red.

28th March and twenty six years on.

I still see how you bled and still feel how you’re gone.

I fear you won’t get read.

What have I done?

Four years and an umarked grave. The only grace in a button called save.

Still tomorrow IS guaranteed, is the type of illusion which we need to believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Girlfriend to lover.

Girlfriend to lover.


Question everything and nothing will ever be difficult he said.

I didn’t ask why.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t try.

Don’t take what’s not yours, I was told.

I couldn’t give her heart back.

She said it was broken.

How should I react?

I’d taken her heart.

These were her facts.

Theft was my thing apparently.

I did four years for one, seven for another.

Changed them completely from girlfriend to lover, wife and then mother. Broken to pieces then traded them in for another.

Question everything and nothing will ever be difficult he said.

Then riddle me this “Why aren’t you dead?” I asked him instead.

© G.P Williamson 2018