Who are you?
Born in England and raised in France, Marisa Orton is a bilingual science student whose greatest passion in life is writing. She is now 17 and loves learning languages, playing tennis matches and the clarinet.

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There’s something about your arms
as they wrap themselves around me;
my white picket fence, built à la main
out of a sea of shattered rubies.

I don’t know why you want me;
you live for the elegant waltz of black opium-
that heaven above. And here I am,
tortured by this insane pandemonium.

You breathe the song of a myriad tales,
from those of adventurers I so long to be,
to those of a fisherman, hopes astray,
as he prays on cherubs dancing for Satan to see.

Your murmurs are but the enchantment of a mountain breeze,
together with the tickle of your breath on my face.
Wrapping my legs around his fiery neck,
I dive into that fatal embrace.

By now I know how it goes,
watching the rolling ripple of emerald waves outdoors.
I have everything and yet nothing at all;
hold me tight and I’ll still be yours.

Plunging into those poisonous waters,
you pulled me out when no other soul would have dared.
The only one who has ever cried for me;
somehow you, despite all you are, cared.

A sky of scintillating diamonds,
broken, fragmented, a collage of breeze and blue-
feisty dashes of inauspicious red-
is breaking up my view of all I knew.

You’re somewhere here. I know you are.
I’ll search forever, and at my own expense,
because we all know what happens inside the house
hidden behind that white picket fence.


You really are beautiful.
From the way sparkles spill from your hazel eyes
To the twitch of your pencil-drawn lips.
A crimson army in your cheeks as you lie:
My heart stops and your soft eyelids eclipse.
Your gaze rests upon my inferiority,
The one thing I have left for you to abuse.
It has long been but a game, you and me;
Albeit you still don’t know what it is to lose.
You’re a work of art, though you’ll never be mine,
A bewitching trace of a lost artist’s burning desire.
From his pencil cascades a wasserfall the color of dark wine,
Intoxicating as the utopia beneath your fine attire.
Your shoulders give way to an illusive embrace,
Your lips begging for just one chance.
Fragments of a being in each smokey porpoise trace,
Enticing me in with one careless glance.
You’re an enigmatic collage of cleverness and class,
Sharp like a myriad of shattered diamonds.
Freckles the color of gleaming brass,
Dispersed as if to induce admiring silence.
I find myself craving your ethereal beauty,
That comforting aura around your smile so excusable.
They say men are but unyielding workers to their duty,
And yet I find your elegance
Simply beautiful.

The Preeminent Deception

As sunlight breaks, in shimmering rays, through the skies of a new day,
I settle down beneath the clouds of fluffy marshmallow white
To read a book in my rocking chair, take in all the scents and sights-
And welcome the day, approaching, bringing a myriad joys and frights.

Through the dew-dropped grass and nose-tickling dandelions
Pads my favorite furry feline friend, emerald-green eyes sparkling.
She springs up onto my lap, with a daintily fairy-like leap,
Where she curls her tail around herself and settles down to sleep.

Purring like a lion, she reaches out a paw,
To lay it on my hand and then gaze up at me with a smile-
Contented as a songbird and charming as a dove-
Of ever-lasting loyalty and never-ending love.

But when I leave my familiar spot and head towards the door,
She hovers in the garden, to make the paradigm-shifting decision-
She is consumed by doubt.
It is once I’ve slowly closed the door that the truth must sneak out.

Like a flash of lightning, around the sharpest corner,
Gregarious as a specter in the sweet heart of the night,
Swift with agile dexterity, not one paw-step makes a sound.
Oscillating with the background scene, she flies with every bound.

Curled up in my spot, a ball of black and white and grey,
She sniffs the scents of the open air, basks in the sunlight
And as I watch the scene before me, I cannot help but stare,
When I realize with a jolt that her real love’s for the chair.


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