poems, Short poems




She wasn’t who she thought she was.

She was worse and that made all his woes better.

He wasn’t who he thought he was and that she never regretted.

She laughed when he said he could go all night.

He cried when she waited a month just for his return.

Together they’d go forever.

In torment devouring each other from within the one soul they shared,

Fictionally – for a writer is always alone.

© G.P Williamson 2017


No harm.

No Harm.


Forgetful wrath in tides of gray, a mistiness that cannot stay.

Cloudy eyes as anger rises, a thousand reds we all despise.

Beguile my youth he spits the truth appalling wretch he drawls abuse.

Clever abuse, articulate.

Obtuse abuse, oval and rounded.

The people who knew it was not them,

should not be concerned nor should they be harmed so don’t fear reprisals you’ll come to no harm.

He laughed.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Tears for growth

Tears for growth


Forgive my stupid mouth.

The atrocities are worse than war.

Your tears could sooth a thousand armies,

Should they experiance what you’ve shed them for.

I’m sorry, words I never say and seldom feel.

Experiance as I don’t know what to say nor why at all I’m real.

Forgive my stupid mouth and with forgiveness may you heal.

My opinion is a sour crust beside the pizza top of life.

Any facts I may have spoken come with a spread of lies.


© G.P Williamson 2017



That’s not a man

That’s not a man


Bad mouthing – real mature.

Like the MCcoys man with a manicure and fake tan.

That’s not a real man.

That’s jelousy, I dare say it.

Admittance, that’s the stereotype of the person I wish I’d been,

Someone they’d seen, famous not just a ghost in the machine.

Write parrallels where truth’s smell and I can’t tell if I’m doing well as I slip deeper down one more step to hell.

No ego! Remove that voice.

It’s the curse that causes the hearse to reverse, back up and reverse again.

You should be the mature one.

There’s only memories of things you’ve done not photograph’s.

Each breath should be like your last.

Make it, make it last.


© G.P Williamson 2017


That’s my law

That’s my law.


My friends need to take a rest, all this coming back from the dead’s causing too much stress.

I feel them pushing at the curtain, swearing and hurting.

Persuasive with jelousy in a hierachy of unstable chemistry, hoping to metamorphose and bloom outside the kaboom.

The circle of infinity, circle of life, circle of trouble and strife ties knots around my brains heart like ringworm for my mind.

The doctors looked but couldn’t see, I didn’t want to find.

No reflection for myself no fear to face.

No punishment, no faith in place and I’m scared.

Scared to accept a taste of tranquility for losing too much before.

I fear love and that’s my law.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Faithful words.

Faithful words.


I couldn’t mind strain a sentence I just knew one after another meant I was walking.

I wouldn’t mind the laughing docks the endless hills or ticking clocks, if it wasn’t for the surprise factor.

That for the past year or so I’ve been walking north. I had no goal but knew where I was going.

I took a rest for seconds and did a map reading, eight thousand miles south it was showing.

I saw a burning bush in the distance which turned out to be a flicker of light on broken glass, from a bottle in the desert which held no water and was too dangerous to trust.

I walked with bleeding feet and aches, aches of a thousand armies until I’d had enough. It was then, then that I began to trust, not in him or me just in the total hopelessness that was my situation. I trusted it was over and that we were done.

Left arm held high holding the note, right holding a flame I torched your existance and I burnt with it.

From head to toe from foot to nose I fried complete whilst the whole world froze.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Regret filled cup

Regret filled cup.


Don’t fill yourself with regret for things that haven’t happened yet.

Don’t lose memories you’ve not got

for people you’ve not yet met.

Don’t fear the reaper when you’re still living the beeper.

You’re the bee, this life’s honey keeper.

Chow down and live it up.

If it tastes sour when it shouldn’t you’re already giving up.

Enjoy the ride, successful highes when riding open, unbroken tides.

Only when there’s nowhere left to hide can you truly learn to fly.

©G.P Williamson 2017