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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Tom Orrow

How I bind thee.

How I bind thee.

09/06/18

A lack of ropes keeps me tied up or rather it doesn’t as the confusion binds me.

Restless and endless I notch and churn.

Dispondant, displacent, uncharacteristically warm.

A lack of ropes and still you fall for my charm.

A short tale of Tom Orrow and that girl from the barn.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Sweets at church

Sweets at church

30/05/2018

They sang in sweets and arms of welcome.

Holding laughs, a place that’s seldom.

They roped in gently, walking talks.

Tongues of murmur and none with forks.

They walk in rows, two by two.

All are welcome.

Me and you.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <—- Hit for Instagram!

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Short poems

That story you wrote.

That story you wrote.

23/05/18

Those forgive me cries.

Those apologies you give off like fire crackers in dreams, all ripped seams and screams, I feel them.

You don’t know it seems.

How would you?

We’ve never met.

That story you wrote – I read it. It was great!

That course you said you would do – do it, it will suit you.

That song you want to sing, lets be honest you’re tone deaf but love yourself.

That’s what’s left.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <— Hit for my Instagram.

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Short poems

Little reminders.

Little reminders.

21/05/18

Bless the approaching mist of over elaboration confusion and your clarity, in force to impress upon me your illusion.

I’m sorry, I really am.

I’m not your favourite delusion.

I know there’s pieces you’re missing even if you abode is full.

I’d be your well if time was reversed but today I’m full throttle.

I can’t see reverse.

Amidst conjecture, gossip and reason.

Outside lies a meadow with a dream I’m believing.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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