Heart Strings

Heart Strings


What is it that gets you with heart-strings?

Grabbed pulled tight like a harpsichord in a drugstore.

Full bore and no throttle.

Like the mind’s willing but you’ve not got the bottle.

What grabs you by the windpipe and holds tight until that light behind your eyes fades?

Night, night.

What pain brings glory?

Which clarity tells your story?

What deranged cinnamon deprived demonic hidden backstaged enraged fear you crave, heals the wounds you enslave?

Encased in happiness without duress, I confess you’re the one they loved less.

Less like an empty hall, bare wall.

The grandfather clock with no chime that’s too tall.

Not seen or heard at all.

What is it that stores the holes we make.

For sanity sake we interchange faces and places for good spirit and cupcakes.

Transfixed with vexed heartaches we can’t partake.

You still count the seconds when you know it’s too late.

What bends you and contorts you?

Shapes and molds you?

Wraps you up bends you and folds you through holes you were born through.

Which envelope of existence delivers you a fantasy to cling to?

Buckle my shoe.

Which dream quantifies the quality of seamstress and her groans and murmurs.

In which dream are you the victim and in which you commit the murders?

No blood on your hands, simply detached.

That’s a master plan you chose not to hatch.

What stairway into the unknown makes you cry when you come home alone?

Which damp floor board creaky step, which he’s behind you, which “it hasn’t happened yet”, which “don’t you forget it” or child mourning comes to your mind without sound or warning?

What is it that gets you with heart-strings.

I am that which they never bring. The nothing that the heart sings.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Alone was all he knew.

Alone was all he knew.


They made him kneel.

They made him pray.

His smile never went away.

They made him promise.

He often swore.

Swore like he never had before.

Stoic adversary a creek he dug alone.

His friendship a silken scarf, woven from the bone.

A curled lip.

A slammed down hand.

Clawing dirt and grit and ground.

A pleasured hope, a rising damp a chance to go another lap.

They made him kneel.

They made him pray.

His smile never went away.


Copyright G.P Williamson 2017


Six word story.

Six word story.

(The idea behind a six word story is that each person comments to create the best or most interesting and most often than not they work as prompts for future works. However I’d noticed I was commenting a fair bit on one post so I put them together and got something……different.)

Six word story.

Together they never forgave each other.

Bludgeoned to ecstacy in chaotic wonder.

Last night they cried mercy, eternally.

Forget me not remember me always.

Death was the release they longed for.

A long release pained every crevice.

Each popcorn bit, a silent scream.

Memory blanked from depth’s just discovered.

He stopped my pain, squeezed throat.

Reiterate my start, unblock my heart.

Beach house blinds the graveyard neighbours.

Standing on stones, blood red rivers.

Many women died within his eyes.

Together they danced, entwined in tomorrow.


© G.P Williamson 2017


He’s dead.

He’s dead.



So it’s true, forever sleeping.

Train lines halted.

The silence in the room is speaking.

I’d listen to what it has to say if it wasn’t for the numbness and the shock.

My gift to you could I bring it, would be more time on the clock.

Sattellites stop swirling and dim to nothing more than metallic nodding dogs in the sky.

A thousand relatives ask a thousand questions all of them are “why?”

Aries dances with virgo up high, an old sheepdog pants and then comes to rest.

As friends go, you’re one of the best.

So it’s true, forever sleeping and I wonder if somehow you brought me that training partner.

I’ll never forget the pose she made which was much like yours, it was so cute.

I’m sorry you never got to meet her Sharpshooter.

There’s a special place in my heart you’re keeping.

So it’s true – forever sleeping.


© G.P Williamson 2017





Amazing Grace.

A voice of wonder.

Sound departing.

Crystal thunder.

Lip tight caresses.

Plausible deniability.

Deviant fetish.

Amazing Grace.

Shoelaces wish.

Sweet to taste.

Touch lips to kiss.

Amazing Grace.

Biting down.

One part pleasure.

One part frown.

Amazing Grace behind the book.

Watching her write,

was all it took.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Many facets


Many facets


There’s many facets to a man’s personality.

Those we see at dusk and dawn chopping trees as the sweat trails down his palm.

Brushing hair away with the back of his hand where a bottle found his grasp.

The seconds tick by like hours on a doomed expression in the waiting room.

Eyes roll as wife moans at old chores she’d bespoke.

He laughs over beer with other blokes.

The pride in his eyes when his daughter passed her test.

The ability to keep going when he needs to rest.

Creating a family home from an empty nest.

An empty grave where he rests.

There’s many facets to a mans personality.


© 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