poems

Depression, the voice.

Depression, the voice.

09/05/18

You’ve got the voice of an angel, a father figure who tells stories and fables.

Picks people up, makes them feel special and more able.

My name’s depression, I’m here to turn the tables.

Mad ideas to see me as your thoughts spin through viaducts discreetly.

Drowning beyond the faith you hide behind to stay afloat, how do you really cope?

What are you gonna do when I rock the boat?

Here’s the thing, somewhere near sleep and dreaming.

That place where the you should start with and believing, yeah that calm place.

That’s where you’ll hear me screaming your name, in your voice with your words turned sour and cursed.

Make sure you slip the verse.

When you’re rock steady and able you’ll freeze.

Uncertain you’ll hit reverse.

Tell me again with your voice and your pen.

How do you stop this depression organ?

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

The cost of a daughter.

The cost of a daughter.

15/04/18

It only takes one tale of love and loss.

One dead relative.

One misplaced trust.

It takes just one person with a connection to share to another that bounces off his wife, children or mother.

It takes on pill stained tear, one last minute of hope, one “are you okay?” to check she can cope.

One thought to save a life.

One share it could be your wife.

One comment they blag “I’m fine” as they lay in the bath with a knife.

It only takes one tale of love and loss.

If this was your daughter, tell me.

What is the cost?

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Book of Shadows.

Book of Shadows.

06/03/18

My book of shadows are so dark. I can’t see anything in them anymore.

A shadow of my former self. Where even the darkness ceases to exist.

It’s from this place, this void of voids, that I’m expected to continue to enlist.

With magic, dark magic, black butterfly kisses.

Chained to walls with dismissive unions. Holocaust delusions.

Nasa, Politicians, The Pentagon, where’s the rest of the world even gone?

Book of Shadows and all that’s gone before.

Close the book, close the door.

Existence is perceptual, a hierarchy of numb, with tuned out silences and harsh whispers,

Atmospheric plunges and wishing I could miss her.

Too far, too long and too late.

Ding dong turn the hands of fate.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Confidence capsized.

Confidence capsized.

19/08/13

Confidence capsized only truth through a lovers eyes supporting viaducts that do not work.

No transport chain, no way to work.

Confidence abundant change the word, pick up the trident.

Shower the world with aqueduct tears.

For you, for the dancing for the cheers.

Same again and same again moody blues to numb the pain.

Meditation, witchcraft, therapy and a forced laugh.

Age old clouds in my head surely I’d be better off – wait a minute, time to sin?

Welcome old friend fate, let it win. Who’s to say it’ll have the last laugh?

You might feel stupid but you’re certainly not daft.

The glint in your eyes from power not cries you know that’s where the confidence lies.

It’s not in the lines nor all in a book it’s deep in the soul you’ll find in my look.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

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poems

Height Asphyxiation

Height Asphyxiation

11/11/17

Like a reminder of my youth the noise doesn’t stop.

Magnified like a beam in the ant’s rays.

I’d turn the other cheek but the memory stays.

Boiling, kids screaming, running riot, unlistening demons rising like allergic reactions to crushed crustaceans.

Can’t breath, terrified of the asphyxiation.

I breath in a fake exhalation. All bad air and no reprieve.

Broken, frozen and deceived.

The screaming couldn’t get any higher and I wince as it reaches the top.

Like a reminder of my youth the noise doesn’t stop.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Universe throat.

Universe throat

She couldn’t speak.

The universe lodged itself in her throat like a place she didn’t belong.

Like the southern border to a northern song.

Every hurt she held was a riddle to his wrong.

A candle rode her shadow in a place as dark as home.

Clutching to his memory so she’d never feel alone.

The planet turned a moment in a place it didn’t belong to listen to the innocence of another lovers song.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Food War.

Food War.

15/10/17

It’s not what you think.

Well, more to the point it is actually.

Specifically it’s exactly what you think.

It becomes who you are.

You are what you eat, right?

Too fat, too thin, too round, too masculine.

Two thousand five hundred and calorie counting.

Burns four eighty an hour trampoline bouncing.

Food saver, underscore, highlight what are we here for?

Will it hurt me? Will it not.

asphyxiate, choice and rot.

Allergic reaction with no known cure.

Constant battle, my food war.

How much is too much my image no crutch,

Unless I’m perceived as too thin then I’m remarkably crushed.

Positive, efficient, every way magnificent.

Don’t believe the hype the greys are ever-present.

I just smile the seven seas through the tunnel to the present.

Eat to full capacity, eat with all your heart.

fulfillment is a constant quest why should you be set apart?

punishment for things you never did to begin with?

Fighting battles with demons who can’t possibly win?

The answer doesn’t matter.

It comes from within.

Give light to the shining and right war will begin.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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