Food War.

Food War.


It’s not what you think.

Well, more to the point it is actually.

Specifically it’s exactly what you think.

It becomes who you are.

You are what you eat, right?

Too fat, too thin, too round, too masculine.

Two thousand five hundred and calorie counting.

Burns four eighty an hour trampoline bouncing.

Food saver, underscore, highlight what are we here for?

Will it hurt me? Will it not.

asphyxiate, choice and rot.

Allergic reaction with no known cure.

Constant battle, my food war.

How much is too much my image no crutch,

Unless I’m perceived as too thin then I’m remarkably crushed.

Positive, efficient, every way magnificent.

Don’t believe the hype the greys are ever-present.

I just smile the seven seas through the tunnel to the present.

Eat to full capacity, eat with all your heart.

fulfillment is a constant quest why should you be set apart?

punishment for things you never did to begin with?

Fighting battles with demons who can’t possibly win?

The answer doesn’t matter.

It comes from within.

Give light to the shining and right war will begin.


© G.P Williamson 2017


I may believe in Christmas Eve.

I may believe in Christmas Eve.


I may believe in Christmas Eve.

The silky touch of holly leaves and every season in between.

I may believe in snowy tomorrow’s, carrot noses and borrowed clothes.

The squelch of wet trainers on the mat.

Yes I may believe in all of that.

I may believe in the love of ghosts, spirit echo’s and the smell of burnt toast.

Faith in the family both here and gone.

Belief for you, for everyone.

I may believe in curled up covers,

T.V nights and naughty words.

I may believe the good die young,

that time will till,

that I’ll right those wrongs.

I may believe I earn my credit.

I’ll progress if I work hard or that morality keeps us steady.

I may believe all sorts of silly stupid things.

I may believe I’m through being the puppet and you can’t take my strings.

I may remember who I am with passion.

Where I came from with emotion and who I’ll become with hope.

I may habitually joke and laugh, sarcasm may navigate a less sturdy uncertain path.

I may occasionally find bubbles in the bath.

I may be the light on dark days, may stand tall with lost strays and may not see the colour for the greys.

I may be fearless in the pursuit of happiness but I’m still dreaming. Awake or not freedom calls.

I’m feeling.

I may be the pilot of my own flying time. I may soar from mountain to cliffhung tree.

I may be me but am I free?

I may attain peace without over thinking due to a miracle pen with invisible ink in.

I never saw that coming.

I may believe in wedding rings and unity in when she sings.

A dancing place a one way course.

Crossing the line on a galloping horse.

I may believe in an unending purse.

Macclesfield rules and the crying boy curse.

I may believe in where I lived in stately homes and farmers with pigs.

I believe that Wales is home with white picket fences and garden gnomes.

I may believe in hikes and camps and firelight nights with the smell of damp.

I may believe in tenderness, love compassion and no stress.

In all of these I may believe and I may believe in Christmas Eve.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Three types of people.

Three types of people.


There’s three types of people in this world.

Those who can count and those who can’t.

Those who pout and those who fold.

Walkers and talkers and ground breaking remarkers.

Each farmer sows seeds of his own indignation, the equation pertains to who starves which nation.

I can achieve the believe but I don’t control the sedation.

Biblical proportions feed multiplication.

They strike a pose and roll the dice.

The fat lady sing but runs with the mice.

We’re undercut and over run the NHS is no longer fun.

Barbiturates in schools and criminals on street corners.

Prisoners get qualified whilst feminists hold their waters.

The world’s changed from newspapers and envelopes to a new deranged all the rage media surged public craze.

One big giant chess board and we’re the stage.

I’m five pieces down and my bishop’s got the plague.

I can’t be too specific for my sanity’s in chains.

Tattered with confusion with little baby reigns.

The crying through the night, the silence as it maims.

Falling past the faces of a thousand photo frames.

Rotating broken batons on a giant disk that twirls, half asleep and half awake the sunlight as it burns.

The only thing I know for sure……..

…..there’s three types of people in this world.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Pit stop

Pit stop


Time to grab your conscience, grip it. Drag it to one side and nip it in the bud.

Clip it.

Cut it short.

Like an accident at work with no humour retort.

Buzz feed, feels weird.

To know the positive direction it’s going is head over heels.

All the feels, none good.

I don’t know what’s worse a** licking or spilt blood.

Moral obligation to keep them out of litigation.

I succeeded with my own augmentation the travesty is ignorance which leads to devastation.

I alone own the labour of my downfalls compensation.

The candle burns at both ends whilst I pretend again that I don’t care.

It’s too late to shed the sickly plates.

I can’t relate to regurgitated hate from people I could have called mates.

A bespoke anomaly which with tomorrow removes autonomy.

All upside down pyramids of hierarchy.

Like a bad caricature of Sons of Anarchy and we’re the parody.

I’m finding it hard to unnattach which is good it means I’m passionate, about the wrong things granted this farce is stagnant.

How do I bounce the ball back to an empty space that can’t react?

It has no soul, vein goals and no clue where the time goes.

Incapacities straight aims to make way for its own lame games.

Toe to toe the wrong way.

Redundant is all I’ve got left to say.

It’s poor enough you facilitate all you fail to eradicate.

One year and you’ll all be on the shrooms playing patty cake.

It’s officially too late.


© G.P Williamson 2017



I don’t mind the pictures.


I don’t mind the pictures.

They’re easily faked.

The video’s I can handle.

It’s the sound I can’t take.

A voice of the absurd.

A thousand telling off’s I didn’t deserve.

My own voice, I try to swerve.

I am dumbfounded by the sound of diminished responsibility.

The reasons they gave for him sounding like me.

I’d say the reverse but wouldn’t it be perverse if his blood wasn’t the curse?

It dries quickly, too thickly and stains robes that turn grown men into bean poles.

Then they ask where the hope goes…

When he knows there’s no bottom to those souls.

That’s where my roots hold.

Grip tight, grow stronger.

Learnt to fight, follow the sun.


Flower power insight.

What’s morally right?

Choice of hindsight.

preconceived ideas all these years fraught off the tears from road blocks to broken locks, untimely clocks all the while not realising I say when this show starts and stops!




Over react.

Just don’t judge the show by the cataracts when the main act bleached his voice black.

I never really sounded like that.

I don’t mind the pictures they’re easily faked.


© G.P Williamson 2017




poems, Short poems

The nightmare takes her (Graphic short)



The nightmare takes her.

Two men or so called.

Infront of her parents.


They heard.

Cried through a needle.

All couldn’t be spared.

Laid out on full view all naked and bare.

Taken to places she couldn’t not go.

How to survive in a world she doesn’t know.


© G.P Williamson 2017