Graphic – Am I writing right?

Am I writing right?


If you don’t bleed a little, feel a tickle.

Find a dismembered arm to pickle or be horrified with a nervous giggle.

Just a little.

Then I’m not writing right.

If you’re not scared you’re not all there, that these voices are real and really aren’t fair.

That it is your fault and no you can’t.

Then I’m not writing right.

If I can’t turn day to night, love to spite, oxygen to airtight then dammit I’m not writing right.

If you’re not on your knees for faith or pleasing, if I’m not painting pictures or it’s not me you’re releasing then I’m not fulfilling my prophecy.

I’m not writing right.

If I pluck out an eye that refuses to cry  whilst you dry your tears on a solitary candle.

If I manage the light to pass into night as you don’t awake tomorrow.

Am I doing this right?

I don’t know how to write.

This is enough come a voice from above that you say what you say if you write what you love then that is enough!

I think that’s how you write.

© G.P Williamson 2018 < — hit for Instagram.


The bad believer

The bad believer.


The darkness whispers gently and is gone into the silence as she sighs beneath me.

The love is rekindled like a candles warmth, relit as her fingers cup here, a mitt.

A glove of warmth.

What had once gone south has headed promptly north.

Gather around those “It’s not possible” preachers.

I bid you well but I can teach you.

Pull yourself upright on a hard rock with your back straight whilst I settle in my comfy life.

This they call sharing but the parable’s not fair.

The darkness whispers gently as intent ears prick the night sky and I wonder.

How shall I deceive them this evening?

© G.P Williamson 2018 <—- Hit for Instagram. 

Short poems

The ants.

The ants.


Dear aliens,

My breast milk substitute contains nicotinamide and soy.

Half the world are scared of letting their child play as a girl or a boy.

We’re not allowed to overtly say black or white.

God forbid you take religion in the wrong light.

Dear aliens, come save us.

They took princess Diana.

Elvis Presley and Robin Williams.

We didn’t care much about the other guys but still they took those too.

Dear aliens, we fund public policy, policing, government upkeep and a corrupt health system but there’s something missing.

A realistic system.

There’s homeless and poor who can’t knock down a door, they don’t own one.

It’s not fun.

Dear aliens, black out the sun.

Show them we are one and must unite as such.

Give them a warning.

Make them appreciate us.


The Ants.

© G.P Williamson 2018 < — Hit for Instagram.

Short poems

That story you wrote.

That story you wrote.


Those forgive me cries.

Those apologies you give off like fire crackers in dreams, all ripped seams and screams, I feel them.

You don’t know it seems.

How would you?

We’ve never met.

That story you wrote – I read it. It was great!

That course you said you would do – do it, it will suit you.

That song you want to sing, lets be honest you’re tone deaf but love yourself.

That’s what’s left.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <— Hit for my Instagram.

Short poems

You’re the rose in me.

You’re the rose in me.


If only I could pronounce evil as love turn chaos to doves, demons to God.

If only I could shut that door like they keep saying I should.

If I could handle a rose with delicate prose that didn’t draw blood.

If only I could.

There’s a world of unanimous decisions they all seem to be happy living.

There’s a world of “if only’s” they’re constantly grieving.

If only I could bring them healing.

Perhaps then I’d not be forever feeling.

© G.P Williamson 2018


A little heartfelt glen or brook.

A little heartfelt glen or brook.


A little glen or brook I guess they’d call it.

I mistook the two but the leprechaun pawned it.

Stole my words and bartered and bought it.

It, It, It, he sold It.

Collaborative demons, sport races with smiles on both faces.

Heads turn, bodies burn as wings take flight and turn.

Speed demons, red ribbons, sporadic choices, a host of choices, schizophrenic causes.

Ran roads, squashed toads. Reddit, splat and gooey toes.

Horses hooves, midnight shoes.

Changing the game but she’s the same, hustled dreams in a million ways.

She’s always a different symbolic conclusion but I can’t be rid of my favourite illusion.

© G.P Williamson 2018


My soppy woman.

My soppy woman.


There’s this woman I love.

Three times three.

Well, two girls and her you see.

Through petals of life’s absurdity.

They’re not rose tinted.

We’ve had our share of brambles and weeds.

It’s just clear now they’re not all they seem.

They’re important, often difficult, sometimes gut wrenchingly hard.

Yet the good outweighs the bad by far.

For every one who is not here in this moment now with us in it.

There’s you three girls every, single, passing, minute.

Through petals of life’s absurdity.

© G.P Williamson 2018