Short poems

Suicide reality.

Suicide reality.

08/06/2018

It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.
No adios, no see you later.
Just vanished after everything like you so often had before, days turned to weeks then a message at my door.
You were no more.
You were no more.
I still find it weird.
Still expect you to just turn up demanding pizza and helping yourself.
I went to your funeral, it didn’t help.
You weren’t the type to kil yourself.
It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Megastorm.

Megastorm.

31/05/2018

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake know that I love you and you made my earth shake.

Don’t feel obliged to stay single your whole life, you’re a gorgeous woman and a perfect wife.

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake tell the girls I love them, they made my world shake.

Don’t feel obliged to let everybody in but respect your mum’s choices. You’re the honey, she’s the queen.

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake, know that true love can never, ever break.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

She writes like the wind takes my breath.

She writes like the wind takes my breath.

15/04/18

Lines one to ten she writes and then complains when they’re over again and again.

Perfect half line perfect symmetry, how she writes with the best of imagery.

She writes dirt.

She writes hurt.

She writes pain from where her soul burns.

She writes lonely,

She writes beyond me.

She writes a tireless world of inspiration that consoles me.

She writes dirt.

She writes hurt.

She writes love and that’s enough.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Inspired by @Jharperpoetry

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poems

Girlfriend to lover.

Girlfriend to lover.

19/02/18

Question everything and nothing will ever be difficult he said.

I didn’t ask why.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t try.

Don’t take what’s not yours, I was told.

I couldn’t give her heart back.

She said it was broken.

How should I react?

I’d taken her heart.

These were her facts.

Theft was my thing apparently.

I did four years for one, seven for another.

Changed them completely from girlfriend to lover, wife and then mother. Broken to pieces then traded them in for another.

Question everything and nothing will ever be difficult he said.

Then riddle me this “Why aren’t you dead?” I asked him instead.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Who you were meant to be.

17/02/18

“How was your holiday?” They’ll say like the ink in a bible rewritten a thousand times this way.

Something you should say.

“How’s the baby?” They’ll ask like the intense rubbing of an unorthodox latex mask.

They all have their quirks, but nobody asks.

Killer clowns, drowned owls, pigeons sneeze and brown frowns.

Question marks in light rafters. Pyramid plunder in dark corners, cursed monsters and pure daughters.

“Have a nice day” and a “thankyou” combined with a “It’s raining out” or a “could be worse” mundane verse after mundane verse.

Hit me up with a “How’s it hanging?”a “Yo sup?” or a “Damn she’s banging” but don’t be mundane when you want to be free.

Step outside yourself for the whole world to see.

You’re not just a program to me.

Be who you were meant to be.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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The depressive monk.

The depressive monk.

02/02/18

Everyone writes of a new year.

They pen forgiveness in their hearts for the pang of guilt.

The twinge of not meeting their own idle expectations.

Then like the poor writers we are we close the book immediately ending the story and hoping to do better next year.

I tell lies, that’s not the new year we write.

It is the old year we feel.

The new year is just the lie we tell ourselves in the hope of feeling something next year.

I digress, she wore ginger like a rainbow that made her eyes glow.

She echoed slender fingers, pale where her lashes flickered, transfixed, mirrored.

I asked her name and she stirred like morning coffee.

I didn’t know her.

She’d never love me.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Legends

Legends

January 16th 2018

It’s like the beauty of getting snail mail or the traditional feel of an old wives tale. A piece of heather, a lucky rabbits foot.

Peeling an apple in one go and then throwing it over your shoulder to make the initial of your true love.

They’re all good stuff, but are they enough?

What happens when you’ve tried all the achey achey oils and the wakey wakey pills?

Most give up leading to addiction or negative connection. The rest just make do with a good old breakdown of which there’s a few. If you’re picky you even get to choose.

But then, what if you don’t want to quit? Maybe you’ve done your breakdown, had your rock bottom. Felt the world has ignored you and now aren’t ready to be forgotten.

What of those who still have that splinter in their mind and can’t let go? I don’t know many things but I know these are the people we don’t forget.

The ones who say “I’m hurt yeah, but I’m not done yet”

The ones who fight through sweat. The ones with scars and broken jars of hearts and aces with a hundred faces of pain and regret and still they chant with stamping feet and mean glares “I’m not done yet!”

I’m not done being me, being to me your vicious problems and we’ll bring to you our war. We are survivors, legends and will be remembered.

Forevermore.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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