poems

A diary for the mind.

A diary for the mind.

15/04/18

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

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poems

How fragile life is.

How fragile life is.

31/04/2018

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

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Scribblings and squabblings

They were never real

They were never real.

January 2018

She looked over the jeans he’d worn earlier that day thrown across a chair in the dark bedroom. “Really there” Said a ghostly apparition, like me or like you. She wasn’t there he couldn’t move, she wasn’t a known person. His heart ballooned until he moved and she was gone.

The jeans were alone although her eyes lingered like the echo of fingers down your spine. Like a clutched tight duvet in blood red wine. He shook, unable to cry, why? Why? Why?

The wardrobe shook with anticipation of things to come as he covered his head and the footsteps started to run.

They were always there like cobweb filled echo’s in the shadows like a thousand hunters aim their arrows, like spider legs above your ankles where the sensation speculates reason and questions doubt. Where you second guess who wants to shout but can’t breath as the air runs out.

The seconds pass, most likely your last, Gasp! You’re awake and again it’s watching but from a different position, a rambling vision, caucasian delusion, a sane minds mad intrusion, Awake and sweating in a cold rooms bedding.

Thumping pulse like a train wreck, steady.

Plagued by her curling her twirls as she flicks at the air. Cold spiral’s of delight knowing she isn’t there.

Cold water, a mirror and several gulps later.

Composed and calm in a relaxed state of repair.

Curled up and comfortable with only you there.

That’s when she’ll run her hand through your hair!

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

P.T.S.D

P.T.S.D

30/06/2017

Memories made manifest of fake situations that are real.

How much I cannot stress.

It’s different for you?

That’s okay, blue.

You’re not wrong and I’m right too.

I shake when I wake and I don’t eat when I ache.

I find it’s too late to fulfill what on my plate.

I want to partake but I push it away on the chance it is filling.

Should I be full I’d be important, be winning.

Maybe tomorrow eh?

The Fool questions his abilities as though they answer for him.

Today we act tomorrow you talk.

Yesterday you worried right now you walk.

The movement’s an agile reminder that things, they come to pass.

Stationary is toxic.

You’re just looking through the glass.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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