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nicole-gavronsky
Poems2
Words191
I spend most of my year in self-effacement. Head down, hand up, a ghost who whispers answers to the lost. They take it; without a second thought, glance, judgement and leave the drooping girl in shades of grey to her notebook of lies. Poetry, prose, fiction, all of it is falsity straining towards enlightenment, in feeble attempts to discover itself, words stumbling into awkward rhymes hoping to somehow fall... into truth. Then I do an about-face. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my hair falls into perfectly shaped golden locks around a painted face. A mask of melanin and mascara allow me to play a different part: one of laughter and physicality, one of reality and presence. The person I become in the summer months of heat, and sweat, and flesh believes that to be found, you must first endeavor to get beautiful, tragically lost.
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Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
nicole-gavronsky
Janus' Daughter
I spend most of my year in self-effacement. Head down, hand up, a ghost who whispers answers to the lost. They take it; without a second thought, glance, judgement and leave the drooping girl in shades of grey to her notebook of lies. Poetry, prose, fiction, all of it is falsity straining towards enlightenment, in feeble attempts to discover itself, words stumbling into awkward rhymes hoping to somehow fall... into truth. Then I do an about-face. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my hair falls into perfectly shaped golden locks around a painted face. A mask of melanin and mascara allow me to play a different part: one of laughter and physicality, one of reality and presence. The person I become in the summer months of heat, and sweat, and flesh believes that to be found, you must first endeavor to get beautiful, tragically lost.
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2
“I am a hurricane,” they say With gasping breath With trembling hands Trying to assign themselves power Anger Destruction Immensity Through the words they write on a page Type on a keyboard Fingers playing with words until their shape resembles those of someone They have lost Themselves along the way To escape isolation they have found community Compliance, uniformity Home I am not a hurricane I am a baseball stadium in the rain After everyone has gone home Because they knew what the outcome of the game would be Without waiting to see it end. No. I am the little girl Eight perhaps, Blonde hair tied back into two plats Sitting in the bleachers Face wet with what she hopes is just rain She doesn’t know why she is crying All she knows is that people make her feel very alone sometimes And maybe it doesn’t matter And maybe it does So she sits there Dripping Breathing in the smell of the earth Slowly, she rises and walks towards the pitchers mound uncertain feet hop-scotch-jumping to the top From there she is the top of the bottom There is mud on her sneakers And blood on her knees She doesn’t know how it got there All she knows is that when she looks up Walls of empty chairs watch her Waiting for something So she picks up a ball And throws as hard as she can But suddenly I’m not a tiny child Shivering in the rain Throwing baseballs for ghosts Im a fifteen year old girl Who thinks she’s all grown up And when the empty seats ask her to give them a show She doesn’t listen Because nobody else does And maybe blinking in rhythm with the sound of his heart Or hopping across side walk cracks Wont keep them any safer But she feels like it does She feels like she’s doing something Maybe its enough Maybe its not but when the voices come out at night she knows to Listen To the sound of her own heart beat And slam Her book closed Her fist against his chest Her head against the wall Because listen She is the only one who can keep them safe They are her monsters Hers to destroy Hers to cherish and cling to when everything else has left She is their hurricane She doesn’t want to be
0
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
nicole-gavronsky
Empty Baseball Stadiums
“I am a hurricane,” they say With gasping breath With trembling hands Trying to assign themselves power Anger Destruction Immensity Through the words they write on a page Type on a keyboard Fingers playing with words until their shape resembles those of someone They have lost Themselves along the way To escape isolation they have found community Compliance, uniformity Home I am not a hurricane I am a baseball stadium in the rain After everyone has gone home Because they knew what the outcome of the game would be Without waiting to see it end. No. I am the little girl Eight perhaps, Blonde hair tied back into two plats Sitting in the bleachers Face wet with what she hopes is just rain She doesn’t know why she is crying All she knows is that people make her feel very alone sometimes And maybe it doesn’t matter And maybe it does So she sits there Dripping Breathing in the smell of the earth Slowly, she rises and walks towards the pitchers mound uncertain feet hop-scotch-jumping to the top From there she is the top of the bottom There is mud on her sneakers And blood on her knees She doesn’t know how it got there All she knows is that when she looks up Walls of empty chairs watch her Waiting for something So she picks up a ball And throws as hard as she can But suddenly I’m not a tiny child Shivering in the rain Throwing baseballs for ghosts Im a fifteen year old girl Who thinks she’s all grown up And when the empty seats ask her to give them a show She doesn’t listen Because nobody else does And maybe blinking in rhythm with the sound of his heart Or hopping across side walk cracks Wont keep them any safer But she feels like it does She feels like she’s doing something Maybe its enough Maybe its not but when the voices come out at night she knows to Listen To the sound of her own heart beat And slam Her book closed Her fist against his chest Her head against the wall Because listen She is the only one who can keep them safe They are her monsters Hers to destroy Hers to cherish and cling to when everything else has left She is their hurricane She doesn’t want to be
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