Short poems

I’m still here.

I’m still there.
29/07/18

I love how I can simply reach through the screen and run my finger down your chest to let you know I’m still here.
In your mind.
Beside your side.
When you need to hide or the kind when you have to look behind.
That’s what was.
Not what’s here, reach out, don’t stop.
You’ll see me softly behind if you look long enough through a mirror.
The hazy apparition still holding your hand.
That chance encounter you’d not planned.
A memory of potential you’d dare not which believe.
Crazy in our faith.
Then we don’t have Christmas eve?
Call it ESP, telepathy, call it astral travel.
It’s all the same to me.
How I can simply be.
How I can simply be.
© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Not fun Jim.

Not fun Jim.
26th June 2018

Not fun Jim.
Look at him!
A parable of lunacy.
Never wears a grin.
All black hearts,
Frozen darts.
Rose buds with black sharps.
The negative reaction.
The cataclysmic pattern of dim eyes and sour expression.
Unloved in his own reflection.
Look at Jim!
Watch him fall! He’ll risk everything,
He’ll lose it all.
Look! Watch Jim go, fallen over his own shadow.
Leave him be, he’s miserable him.
What do you expect?
He’s not fun Jim.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

The Great Illusion.

The Great Illusion.
26th July 2018

Imagination the worlds greatest deceiver.
Love the worlds largest believer.
Faith, a fickle fact.
Friendship, don’t over react.
Fate, without reason perhaps.
Blue print? Don’t make me laugh.
Do pray for those days you could have made a change.
Let them know more are welcome.
They’re challenging, life changing and seldom.
This perception is our reality, internal clarity.
Taste the purity, the best, accept no less.
work smart, not hard, rest.
Duress is a test, a byproduct of stress.
This perception no less is our reality.
Speak internal clarity.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

Stop wearing it!

Stop wearing it!
11th July 2018

It’s truly unruly the lack of understanding in unity.
A combined surreal metaphysical onion peel of charisma tempered apparel.
The clothes that hide the perception we tell.
Who are you really? Well?

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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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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poems

The hurts from church.

The hurts from church.

24/06/2018

She couldn’t sleep for the hurts from church.

Splinters had dug deep from where her nails made skin weep.
She didn’t believe in herself.

She was in deep.

She sat stoney eyed amidst a hundred sheep who’s pain collide.

He stood in the pulpit.

Prompting their suicide unknowingly.

Another puppet of a mediocre society.

That night after prayer and hymn, evening song and lashing, the damn burst.

She grabbed a pen and started to write.

“I couldn’t sleep for the hurts of church”

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

I always put pepper on my salty cuts.

I always put pepper on my salty cuts.

12/06/18

Above all else the pages falter.

They blow in the wind like a frozen altar.

Melting, corroding, falling, unresponding.

Pairs of tears cross palms where the sights of snipers leave their mark.

You can’t see them anymore, times have jaded.

The wounds are deep but scars have faded.

We sit alone in the dark even in the light of day.

Just another nuisance another grey living in a silver cloud.

I always put pepper on my salty cuts.

It may be feeble, but I don’t give up.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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