Depression, the voice.

Depression, the voice.


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


The cost of a daughter.

The cost of a daughter.


It only takes one tale of love and loss.

One dead relative.

One misplaced trust.

It takes just one person with a connection to share to another that bounces off his wife, children or mother.

It takes on pill stained tear, one last minute of hope, one “are you okay?” to check she can cope.

One thought to save a life.

One share it could be your wife.

One comment they blag “I’m fine” as they lay in the bath with a knife.

It only takes one tale of love and loss.

If this was your daughter, tell me.

What is the cost?

© G.P Williamson 2018


Confidence capsized.

Confidence capsized.


Confidence capsized only truth through a lovers eyes supporting viaducts that do not work.

No transport chain, no way to work.

Confidence abundant change the word, pick up the trident.

Shower the world with aqueduct tears.

For you, for the dancing for the cheers.

Same again and same again moody blues to numb the pain.

Meditation, witchcraft, therapy and a forced laugh.

Age old clouds in my head surely I’d be better off – wait a minute, time to sin?

Welcome old friend fate, let it win. Who’s to say it’ll have the last laugh?

You might feel stupid but you’re certainly not daft.

The glint in your eyes from power not cries you know that’s where the confidence lies.

It’s not in the lines nor all in a book it’s deep in the soul you’ll find in my look.

© G.P Williamson 2017



poems, Short poems

Lost the indefinite version.

Lost the indefinite version.


Everyone’s okay and there’s nothing to hold, nothing to replace you.

Nothing in my soul.

Everyone’s ok and I can’t fathom the tree.

I’m looking up aimlessly, are you around to see?

They’re all trading tokens, you’re worth your weight in gold to me.

They’re all flying high and my weight’s a solidarity.

Begone the phantom humbug. I’ll put the jar back and turn that lid.

I’ll keep the feeling buried, for you’ll always be my kid.

© G.P Williamson 2017



Universe throat.

Universe throat

She couldn’t speak.

The universe lodged itself in her throat like a place she didn’t belong.

Like the southern border to a northern song.

Every hurt she held was a riddle to his wrong.

A candle rode her shadow in a place as dark as home.

Clutching to his memory so she’d never feel alone.

The planet turned a moment in a place it didn’t belong to listen to the innocence of another lovers song.

© G.P Williamson 2017






Memories made manifest of fake situations that are real.

How much I cannot stress.

It’s different for you?

That’s okay, blue.

You’re not wrong and I’m right too.

I shake when I wake and I don’t eat when I ache.

I find it’s too late to fulfill what on my plate.

I want to partake but I push it away on the chance it is filling.

Should I be full I’d be important, be winning.

Maybe tomorrow eh?

The Fool questions his abilities as though they answer for him.

Today we act tomorrow you talk.

Yesterday you worried right now you walk.

The movement’s an agile reminder that things, they come to pass.

Stationary is toxic.

You’re just looking through the glass.


© G.P Williamson 2017


The bad mirror

The bad mirror


They believe you’re perfectly charming.

There’s a lie beneath the cloak of ego.

A reflection which bites the legs under the cover of darkness during sleep time.

Night time.

Alone time.

Not daytime.

Not at any point where you direct your shield to prevent them knowing the real you, oh no, that wouldn’t do.

Your cowardice is the ink which gives birth to the oath of a lie.

Your mouth the birthing mother giving growth to humanity.

The type of growth most people pay to have removed for the fear of appearing hideous, yet you, wow.

You’ve made a living from parenting them, coaching lies to ladies eyes whilst turning cheeks as though surprised.

I had to watch mesmerised.

The only question left is why?


© G.P Williamson 2017