Short poems

Train wreck.

Train Wreck.


Hmm how interesting, the fear train associated with the hazard gap you’ve explained time and again.

The safety net the great pretext to beat what they haven’t conquered yet.

Him I’ll never forget.

I need to bring forwards what I’ve not achieved to date.

Goodbye Lee.

No regrets mate.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Leap of faith.

Leap of faith.

They call it a leap of faith when the shelf disappears and the yelling stops.

When you can’t help but face what was making you drop.

Broken knees, buckled gut wrench like angle grinders to fingers on a workbench.

Cut down and stood up to fall through dark mud. What’s the colour of your blood?

They say you have to face it to make it. That vulnerable sickness you feel when you want to run.

That’s step one.

Stopping and perceiving the believing of the problem.

Those issues, phobias and fears.

Newsflash: We’ve all got those.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Tore my house down.

Tore my house down.


And there we’ll go to another wedding, another baby shower, another “Isn’t this fun?” another happy hour with statue faces, airs and graces, elongated gestures and food you can’t take where nothing’s out of place and there’s nothing I want more than to scream “What a f*cking bore!”

Take me out of this race I can’t help the faces, I run backwards and trip “Just get a grip” as I cry mercy and quit because you know what? I’m not over it. I never will be. When you left you tore my house down and chewed up the foundations.

Please fly with the angels and play with the daisy’s.

Goodnight baby.

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Scribblings and squabblings

Rap games.

Rap games.


Rap has often been about calling a whore, starting a war or dragging out the boy next door.

I won’t give you the fight you’re looking for. I’ve been here before, won, laughed, blown the smoking gun and then felt daft.

There’s no winners to your game.

You’ll lose every time. For that reason I walk but be thankful I’m kind because keep up your shit – I’ll blow out your mind.

Ya’ll push me to snappin and try to control me, put me down gently, nice words to console me.

Huddle in masses all laugh’s because you act like I’m lonely.

Then ya’ll ask my input because you’re a one trick pony.

© G.P Williamson 2018




The ratty poet.

The ratty poet.


“How are you?”

Sad and pathetic.

Unrealistically drastic, uncharacteristically spasmatic in a world all crazy and cataclysmic.

It makes me sick how the world turns and their opinions with it.

Spin on that sh*t.

Poetry floored like open doors the vicar takes through the orphan boys and still convinces them of his new toy.

How’s it going?

I’m borrowing harrowing self pity from a self deprecating boat I’m rowing.

Tree sewing with bad seeds and unplanned roots.

I’m bombing off shoots with stolen insult tools all no use all noose and mad chaotic.

To be honest I find the whole thing mildly erotic.

My saviour a three minute fap for a new flavour.

Screw your god, I’ve found a new saviour.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Tokens to dreams – everywhere!

Tokens to dreams – everywhere!


There’s tokens to dreams everywhere.

Stars in the day sky invisible that pass me by and although I ask I don’t know why.

Tokens cascading, obliterating the scene through views I had and places I’ve been.

There’s tokens in clothing, tokens with holding, tokens of tokens where shattered dreams are broken.

With us both in.

There’s been tobacco tins of plenty from years I smoked myself empty, during times I resent me.

That token’s empty.

They flutter like butterflies in featherless skies with beauty spots and shiny eyes.

They whisper and they tell lies.

I’m past that care, the rich get richer and they can’t spell share.

Morality’s unjust and my own dreams are laid bare.

I’d suckle the flowing teet of humanity without dignity if I could raise the family.

Life doesn’t run on empathy or fair, look!

There’s tokens to dreams – everywhere!

© G.P Williamson 2018



Heartless woman

Heartless woman.


She lay half broken.

Legs akimbo with her skirt rucked up and her heart beside her on the floor.

Dragging herself to her knees she clutched the useless meat in both hands and stared in bare hope and anguish.

“Pump you b*tch!” She mentally called to a world that had never listened before.

I’m not your tortured soul.

Your bit of rough.

Your friday night.

I’ve had enough!

I’m more, I’m me.

I’m the cure, I want to be free.

“Pump! Pump for me.” She squeezed once for hope and once in vein then in anger again and again.

The blood was red the meat was thick she thumped it hard, pounded it quick.

Flowing tears with empty mind.

A life that flashed before her eyes.

It hit rewind with every slow torturous minute.

Replayed every regret, tear and grimace.

The empty nights holding her stomach with dreams of what could be.

The emptier nights holding her stomach dreaming of what was, and the worse nights clutching her heart for what should have been.

A black tar filled hole resided in her chest where a sliver of her soul still yearned to burn.

We never quit as teachers but we never seem to learn.

She stood up empty and cold as remnant of her heart lay strewn across the floor.

She turned towards the light.

No choice but to walk away in defeat.

Several moments later…

… That heart began to beat.

© G.P Williamson 2018