A Curvy Girl -Z

          I am Hilary and I have hid from my body for most of my life. I have done a few mean things like write about girls who are like skinny twigs but I never ment I world that I wrote honest. I am just confused about why I am in this body because no matter how hard I try I can't seem to get out of it. This poem is for curvy girls curvy being a word that makes me feel good about my image. 

From, A Curvy Girl 

Raphaella -Z

Hello, I knew you were going to read this I could feel it in your aura. I have been accused of many things included being a witch (not true) I help my mother with herbal medicines nothing like witchcraft, but has made me love to work with plants and hate technology (well with some exceptions). People can be very harsh as I am sure you know and I wrote these poems in my darkest times before I met someone who finally understands me (my boyfriend Garnet) but I'm sure you knew all that. From, Raphaella

 Alone

Hushed Solitary 

Whispering Dreaming Piercing 

Room Outsider Nightmares Prayers 

Cursing Pleading Hiding  

Brused Horrific

Abandoned 

Garden 

Fresh Warm 

Digging Caring Seeding

Tomatoes Lettuce Chips Remote

Vegetating Watching Absorbing 

Brain-Dead Sunken 

Television 

Spiritual 

Herbal Ghostly 

Dreaming Raising Seeing 

Candles Quills Facts Journal 

Researching Experimenting Presenting 

Exact "Realistic" 

Scientific 

that land called somewhere-A

Dear Symone,
You were as unique as your name
you were outgoing,friendly,loving, and tender
Out of all, you were mine
and you will always be no matter how far, over me,standing with me or underneath me
you will always have a place in my heart.
We would always talk about after life, or what we would like to call that" land called somewhere"
Hopefully we can meet in our land called somewhere.
- your's and yours only Jared

Red Roses- A

Dear, Dylan
I got these roses today, from  a anonymous source
I feel you sent them to me
Today I got dozens of roses from others although out of the batch Yours was the reddest,
the ones that were filled with love, and you.
- Your only Jen

Left me blind- A

Dear, Elii
You have me here alone blind
Blind from love,affection and tenderness
Please open my eyes again
One more time.-
- Jess

Waiting-A

Dear Emma,
I am not sure where you are
But when you return I will sit here on the bench
the bench where we met, and fell in love
- your dear david

Drops of Sunshine -Z

    I was never one for formalities so hi, I am going to take a wild guess and say that the majority of people reading this has absolutely no intrest in our world whatsoever and think I'm just another hippy preaching about recycling and buying local. Ha if only you could pay attention to what happens around you for more than ten seconds, if only you could put down that remote or that cell phone for that time and just look. I bet your thinking that everything looks okay but thats just here what about Africa what about the Icebergs and cue the "Oh I know all about that" why do you think those people you consider hippies and unrealistic care so much? Because we can see, we can see and THINK about what goes on around us I bet I have lost half of you already but I don't care. These poems were written for people who care by people who care, people that are hippies and unrealistic, people that have the gift of sight and thought intertwined as one. This is a cannon of my works as a hippie/unrealistic or as I like to call them my drops of sunlight. Peace Angelina (Just wanted to work up the stereotype)

As Time Keeps Ticking On- Z

Dear Reader......I have nothing to say 

Time keeps ticking on making mournful song,

As the clock strikes nine I wake a new day, 

The sun creeping out a moment some would long, 

 But not all are so fortunate to see, 

Pick up the phone and hear as my heart flies, 

I pray that it's you on the other end, 

Your soft tone and your hazelnut brown eyes, 

The ring goes on as the clock ticks the time, 

Suddenly I smell the fresh earth and see, 

Me fumbling with your dirty green gloves, 

Us planting a new small leafy green tree, 

I realize how the time has passed by, 

As the clock strikes ten I know that your gone, 

And the old wooden clock keeps ticking on, 

Suicide of poetry.-A

Dear, Lauretta,