Short poems

Lego days.

Lego days.

12/05/18

These thoughts are lego days built up, knocked down and strewn around the ground, the pattern sways.

These thoughts are jumbled bricks, tit bits, uneven sticks, Matchstick men of matchstick cats and dogs.

These thoughts are frozen icicles on frozen logs.

Burning coldly in front of a ghastly fire of pain and fury. It warms me.

Cosy up a little closer.

Let me tell you a story.

© G.P Williamson 2018          <— Click for Instagram.

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Short poems

Last days at the Lake.

Last days at the Lake.

17/05/2018

The last days at the lake.

Cold in a shimmering state like oil on slate.

All bare legs and flowing skirts, the temptation hurts.

The fountain of truth flows clarity through an aura I forgot I was, that’s purity for you.

It’s what it does.

There’s a ritualistic ending to this place, so clear and blue.

They’ll be a part of me staying.

Staying here with you.

© G.P Williamson 2018           <– Click for Instagram.

 

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poems

Weighed heavily in my throat.

Weighed heavily in my throat.

14/05/18

I’m so far up the ladder of make believe the pixies consider me a large uncle.

A gentle giant they’ve known for years who visits in sleep time and ruins their dreams by tickling their feet.

I’m not discreet.

All was well until the tulips started asking for more pocket money.

I thought I’d paid them enough in tears and sweat until they chanted “more!”

They wanted regret.

The bookcase of faith had tripped and fallen on its flat white face.

Empty pages fell open all over the god forsaken place.

Two pillars lodged in stone weighed heavily in my throat.

They’d live to sing an eternal tune had I not taken the boat.

I’m so far up the ladder of make believe even the dead take time to grieve.

© G.P Williamson 2018                                               <———- Click for Instagram.

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poems

My soppy woman.

My soppy woman.

12/05/2018

There’s this woman I love.

Three times three.

Well, two girls and her you see.

Through petals of life’s absurdity.

They’re not rose tinted.

We’ve had our share of brambles and weeds.

It’s just clear now they’re not all they seem.

They’re important, often difficult, sometimes gut wrenchingly hard.

Yet the good outweighs the bad by far.

For every one who is not here in this moment now with us in it.

There’s you three girls every, single, passing, minute.

Through petals of life’s absurdity.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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poems

Devious minds

Devious minds

12/05/2018

Sleep and begone the merry men of illustrious illusions.

How devious minds play dreams and conclusions.

Begone anxious states open plates, uneaten stale sandwiches and rotten cake.

Begone with your all’s well that ends well, time heals all wounds and don’t worry pet it will be better soon’s.

Take yourself down to that lagoon and look the dark horrors in the face as they grimace.

Shake hands with deaths claw and walk away unscathed.

Sometimes you have to walk the path someone else paved.

It’s grave.

Then return and tell me I’ll be saved.

© G.P Williamson 2018                                <————–  Click my name for my instagram!

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poems, Uncategorized

You can’t achieve, under achiever.

You can’t achieve, under achiever.

11/05/208

Here she is again in this mind of mine all snowing with blizzard hail and rainy and pale.

Like a crustacean when I needed a whale all fickle and frail.

Intangible with insurmountable proof.

No matter the choices it’s all no use.

How aloof this deceiver this ridiculous make believe you can’t achieve, under achiever.

Here she is again wearing thin the voices of reason with her ghostly skin all pale and thin.

You can’t touch me, you’re not real! Run horror run.

I’m the king of my queenery and you answer to me.

Just because you sound convincing occasionally doesn’t mean I’ll let you win.

You’re all illusion and might.

Meet logic – hold tight.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

Direction of the wind.

Direction of the wind.

10/05/18

I’ll know more by the direction of the wind,

which emotion by which hymn he sings.

I’ll know love or pain it’s all the same by what he brings.

These god forsaken broken wings.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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