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

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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poems

Vials of feelings.

Vials of feelings.

09/05/18

Glad for the vials of feelings I’m taking into the future.

Glad the shelf of love and luck holds more than most can conjecture.

The shelf that lasts beyond the depth of time is mine and no more secure could I find a path.

No bows no ties.

The ripples lie within the river but none within her eyes.

The stream of love drowns out the tears she used to cry.

A million other oceans and a thousand other whys?

She doesn’t hold the answers and her passion is my crime.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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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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