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 Apr 2015 Marco Jimenez
Raven
There is a small voice
I always hear
Telling me to face my fears

The little voice is changing
It's turning against me
It was meant to save me
But now it will be the end of me
I need saving but no one cares
This little voice haunts my nightmares
The little voice is almost there
It has almost won.
Does anyone care?
 Jan 2014 Marco Jimenez
Sia Jane
Through these eyes
the looking glass world
where Alice no longer exists
Lost in Wonderland passé
the outdated reformed
old-fangled legend of
lovers caught in lust
captured, overthrown
their love a blessed curse

I see anew through
rose tinted glasses
kaleidoscope cylinders
with mirrors of beads
objects of beautiful forms
observed; a curve, a secret
a jewelled hand, gold painted nails

Her glance catches mine
eyes meet as lips are bitten
there's something in our eyes
love is seeing, an imperfect
woman, in all her perfection

Despite removing any glass
from miracles of the eye
there only remains a quintessential
irreproachable, unmarred deity
and as long as I love with such
profound affection, perfection
with her will always rein

Your glance shifts,
your gaze lead astray
your face tells
a thousand stories
in just one expression

I am your island
and you are my sea
I sit, love unrequited
for you to return
the tide
back to me.


© Sia Jane
 Aug 2013 Marco Jimenez
Emma
There's something like fire in me,
something like dense wind and fierce waves,
something in the way of a bold moon.
Light shines in on me through my scar tissue, hits something deep.
The light seeps
and drips
and weeps.

I weep with fear of being overcome,
with the bitter taste of false expectations
and a burnt heart.
My skin has peeled away and like ash blown into nothingness,
baring me for what I am:
a child ashamed of her tears.
a fruit fallen before ripeness.
a sapling wishing for the wisdom of a tree.

Wishes weighting my sunken soul further down,
and I seek to be set free.
To break out of my body and become the universe,
to fill my soul with her stars and plant love with my steps
and weave golden threads of light from my once-heavy fear.

Fear.
Fear is my vast, heavy ocean.
Fear erupts within me, an angry volcano
and envelopes me.
Fear is my darkness. The darkness is too much for me.

I want to be inside myself and live in my heart,
the girl of golden threads with a voice like lightning,
who knows her mind and speaks her heart and exists
as a pure expression of love.
Like grass sprouting up from charred ground.

In darkness and stillness, I light fire to my barren body
in hopes of new growth.
For love and only love.
For everything was only ever an expression of love,
and I can accept that next time around.
 Feb 2013 Marco Jimenez
Marian
Summer is the time for buzzing bees and singing cicadas
Summer is a hot dry time when all the world is parched craving to drink something cold like ice water
It becomes too hot to walk much outside
Birds call to each other from swaying trees that blow in the cool breeze
Flowers dance in the cool breezes showing off their beautiful colours bright and bold
The sweet smell of honeysuckles drift
From the enchanted forests and woodlands beautiful
Nature herself blooms as the flowers that dance in the fields and meadows
And love blooms in my heart for everybody like lily of the valley whose sweet perfume was made by Fairies
Everything is like a Fairyland as I sit on a mossy boulder by the creek
Here it is that I have the sweetest dreams that the Fairies bestow me with
And I am happy as I bathe my feet in the coolness of the mountain stream
Japanese irises blooming sweetly their petals so pretty and delicate for the Fairies wove them into a tiny stem of green and made a flower

*~Marian~
Who I was
Merged with
Who I became
And created
Who I am.
 Feb 2013 Marco Jimenez
Emma
Tastes of metal. Tastes of rust.
I take wisps of music from the air
to try to fill up the hole.
I am not whole.
I ******* own limits,
my own blossoming self-doubt.
I am afraid of learning to hate.

I want to be the answer to somebody's question.
Is life so short that love will
evade my outstretched fingertips?
Water droplets and flowers on the ground,
and peaches.
Hugs that end too soon. Can
I ask for it to stop? Can I take
a breath?

Do you draw your own lines or
watch them form around you?
Or did you not notice them at all?

I want to be someone's wispy,
wishful thought,
drifting to touch the ground,
back in the air with the wind,
I bet it would taste like
freedom.
Having no choice.
What a paradox.
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