poems, Short poems

I fear you won’t get read.

I fear you won’t get read.

23/03/2018

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

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Short poems

Mud

Mud

09/12/17

Blazing saddles of stagnant glory.

How the water doesn’t heal but pours before me.

I see the cleansing heated clear meaning, natural and sparkly features of the believing and I sit in blazing saddles of stagnant glory.

Writing, writing and rewriting my own one word story.

Mud – the autobiography.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

Time constraints.

Time constraints.

14/11/17

It wouldn’t be long now, should I turn you down?

The song of freedom you could be allowed.

Reminiscent shadows of doubt alleviates the perfect chance.

The choice opportunity of progression which is the smartest destined move, magnificent aptitude amazing graceful act of altering the world through finer choices.

Every authors dream.

My book.

My voice.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

Glimpses.

Glimpses

05/11/17

Potato unicorns.

Bloody Rose thorns.

Turnip candle holders.

Fake fifty pounds.

Alien Crisps.

Apple pie crumble.

If we take them all out my soul starts to crumble.

Reminders of a fitful past, memories that do not last.

A floating globe, a passing look.

You’ll find them all inside my book.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

The writer.

The writer.

24/10/17

I could barely see who I was through those last few pages.

I didn’t expect those hands to reach out and tear my chest in two.

I knew when it came to tears on the left there’d be a few.

I didn’t know that on the right there’s be, there’d be you.

The man who never prepares for the worst will live to his best only for so long.

The man who never prepares for the best will only reach it in his dreams.

I may sleep in the frying pan of doom or the volcano of destruction but I rise with the beauty of a million hornets preparing for battle.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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