Short poems

Like a glove.

Like a glove.
20/08/2018

Atrocious indignities.
Beware looming obituary’s.
dogs fallen into sullen corners.
Cold waters, frozen daughters.
Minute b*tch from lone wolf.
Lack of trust you learnt the truth.
Strong pack.
Pack of lies.
No soul.
Fires behind those eyes.
Baptise you and your lack of love.
Stick to yellow.
It fits like a glove.

© G.P Williamson 2019

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poems, Short poems

Braking and Breaking.

Braking and Breaking.
27/01/2019

There’s something to be said for that split second between braking and breaking.
When at nearly thirty you spot her face through the car window like she’s there.
Both next to you and not.
The last face you’ll have the chance to, wish you, forgot.
It happens all at once.
Instinct to swear, to swerve, to move as the back wheel rides a curb.
You jabberwocky around, fishtail and slant a desire to react more but just can’t.
Then the storm has gone but feels like the eye.
The face vanished but something’s left behind and you’re fine.
For a while.
A while between braking and breaking.

© G.P Williamson 2019

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poems

A jibe at hipocrisy.

A jibe at hypocrisy.
04/08/2018

Oh the hilarity at your calamity.
Belly laughs jovially like jelly beans tipped over me.
It’s only you that fails to see, you’ll wait for eternity.
I’d like to sing a different song.
I’d love to think I’d once be wrong,
but again you’ll have to fight and still you’ll sleep alone at night.
He never gives you any rights and so will never hold you like,
the way he sure does hold his wife.
When he looks up in her eyes and fills her with a thousand lies.
One day she will realise with years of unbridled hate that he caused such a bad state,
Because you chose to lie in wait.
Then wait then if you really must but don’t do it in the name of love.
Neither of you are worthy of the hands of time that turn to dust.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

 

 

 

 

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Short poems

Pillow talk.

Pillow talk.
03/08/2018

Pillow talk on flower beds.
Greens, orange, crimson, reds.
Flowers talk on pillow beds.
Cotton clouds, feather threads.
Crimson threads and lining clouds.
Filled with wished, lived with doubts.

Orange, crimson, reds and green.
Half awake when life’s a dream.
Satin sheets and purple themes.
Don’t we make the perfect team?
On pillow beds, flowers talk.
Petals, thorns, spikes and storks.
Pillow talk on flower beds.
Greens, orange, crimson, reds.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Fighting.

Fighting.
29th July 2018

I heard it said I had to grasp it with both hands if I wanted something to come of it.
Never mediocre, always learning, the far end of stood out, stomach churning.
Books burning, piles and heaps of skips, mountains filled with notes and quips.
Sarcastic shoot from the hop hit bits of luminescent sh*t.
Fried alive amidst screams and cries, raging heights.
Clown faces, lemonade, tastes of bleach as Bucks Fizz plays.
I never made my mind up.
Legs rise as smoke engulfs my character and eyes lock here until the ever after.
Loved to death and passioned through birth.
Dated in life.
Married in earth.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Bad dad

Bad dad.
04/08/2018

Bad dads….lost days all the time I had.
I watch you playing alone when I’m here watching, can’t assist.
It’s sad, there’s only you I miss.
I watch your eyes glaze slowly and hold hope to calm strokes from your eyes where the hair pokes.
I gently mop your brow from the unholy tears, how have you coped all these years?
You grew up in seconds before me.
If this is a test from god I object, objectively.
Stand proud at the helm of reason and sentence him myself to treason.
I love her and she’s my reason, for living.
Whilst you’re stood grieving, know.
Know it’s in you all my dreams are living.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Daisy chain my name.

Daisy chain my name.
2/08/18

I don’t want a pocket full of poseys.
I want a heartbeat in a jar.
I don’t want you wearing my skin,
But I want you not too far.
I don’t want your love creamed like a lotion,
But I’ll have you swallow ocean after ocean.
I don’t want to lay claim to fame.
I want your daisy chain to write my name.
I don’t just want those intricate lips to lay me tender.
I want to have you surrender, surrender, surrender.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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