You're my snickerdoodle, pumpkin strudel,
You're the sauce upon my noodle,
You're prettier then a purple poodle,
You're the one I like to doodle,......on my doodle pad,...

He was up late again, reading one of his many comic books, when he heard the usual scratching at the back porch. So engrossed in his title, the youth ****** from his chair and crept toward the window. A band of large masked creatures scurried off into the gloomy, moonless night. The boy thew on his coat and grabbed a flashlight and camera as he headed out onto the back porch. He glanced at one of the raccoons just as he scampered into the gigantic black berry bush below his field. The boy decided to take a closer look. He started to move toward the giant bush below his field when he suddenly tripped over something on the ground. As he across to his feet, he noticed a small door covered with branches and dirt. He brushed away the ******* and stared at the small door in the ground. With out much thought, he put his shacking hand to the handle and slowly opened the door. Hundreds of tiny stairs led their way to a huge room, miles wide and long, but only about four feet high. The room was quiet, he was about to scream when he heard the same scratching noise that was at his back porch, only this sound was louder. The boy slowly turned. His heart pounding in his chest; his body like steel iron. Then, a sudden hush goes over the whole room. He opened his eyes to meet a four foot raccoon staring at him. The animal lifted his head to the boy and whispered, "tag, your it!"

A bold abundance of magnificent color burst as the sun makes its way into the pail atmosphere. As I sit and watch the stunning work of art appear, I hear the wild turkey scuttle through the dry reeds. It is morning, and the animals of the forest are awakening. Looking up at the trees, I notice a great many birds soar up towards the endless ocean-blue sky. A buck and doe silently wonder through the thicket. I decide to walk back toward the house when I glance at a small gray-eared rabbit dash out of sight in to the brush. This is my backyard. My quiet, thinking place. This is where I go when all the troubles in my life are too many; or if homework is unbearable. Other times I go just because I enjoy the peace and quiet. When I walk outside each morning, I can choose to lie on the grass, or swing on an abandoned rope swing hanging from the tallest tree. As I plop myself down to unwind on the cold ground, I think of what a beautiful place this is. This is my quiet place. My own little world of nature.

If you wish to be loved,
Then love a lot
If you wish to be strong,
Then never give up
If you wish to have friends,
Then be a friend
If you wish to be wise,
Then learn to be humble
If you wish to have a full life,
Then give it away
And in doing this,
You will have won it all.

New to the town, I hopped off the bus,
I came all alone, just me and a trunk,
To a bright, new world, I looked all around,
It was a quiet town, with not even a sound,

So I settled right in and began my work,
In a small crooked shop, I became a bank clerk,
At first no one came, not even a fly,
Then one day, someone finally walked by,

“Hello,” he said, as he opened the door,
“I believe you are new, I am Edward Debore,”
I am flattered, I said, to see a new face,
You’re the first someone I’ve seen in this empty place,

He was tall, rather thin, with a nose like a pin,
On his back, I believe, he had some type of fin,
“Oooooh,” he moaned, “I am quite parched,”
Oh my, I replied, I’ve only this berry ****,

But, to my surprise, he swallowed it whole,
And with it, gulped down, my grandmother’s bowl,
Oh dear, I cried, as he burped loud and clear,
It seems you are more than “parched,” I fear,

Who are you, I asked him, what do you do,
I am a bank clerk,…oh, there’s a fly, Shoooo!
Look, there he goes, open the door,
…GULP, …Mr. Edward Debore!!

At that moment I stood there with fear in my eyes,
Mr. Edward Debore had just eaten a fly,
Another flew by and he gulped him right down,
By then my smile had turned into a frown,

I could not stand it another second,
So I snatched my umbrella and I sliced it through his stomach,
The flies were set free and so was the bowl,
For Edward Debore had gulped them down whole,

                  The End
And also the end of Edward Debore!

Beauty fills the air, your love I feel and it comforts me,
He who lifts my spirit, He who sets me free,
A quiet simplicity fills my heart, a voice, your voice,
You know when I am lost, and when I come home you rejoice.

With strong hands you raise me up to see the stars,
My eyes are opened as I find that you are never far,
All I need to do is look up, and pray,
Your love, forever, will guide my way.

Dear you:
    
          Laugh and cry, remember to live,
          With every day that comes, love and give,
          There’s only one “you,” hope your dreams come true,
          Make those worries disappear, and know that God loves you,
          Your gonna fly, and your gonna fall,
          But that’s okay, because best of all,
          Your a person with gifts, a person with style,
          And we all make mistakes, and it can take a while,
          To realize the person within every person,
          That no matter how small, we’re all loved,
                      By our Father above.

Inside the mind there is a world. Not a real outside world with people and cars, but the mind is a creative, thinking world were only its person can control. A world full of life and adventure and also nothingness at times. The mind is a treasure chest. A book of a million pages, both filled and empty. The filled pages are homes to all of the thoughts, good and bad, ideas, plans, knowledge, and memories. The empty pages are for the times to come; the birthdays, graduations, family reunions, science projects, and new school years. Then there are also sad and lonely moments that will come; loved ones dying and broken hearts. The mind is like a clock; the gears, and wheels always turning, always thinking.

The rain had finally settled down to just a trickle: Like a leak in a spout. I walk over the blanket of moist pine needles that were blown from the highest points of the oldest pine trees. It is sunset. The birds sing their last song before the night comes. I climb up an old oak tree to get a better look of the color in the sky. Just as the dark is about to capture the day, I lean out into the night air, and it is silent. The whole world is closing its eyes and I appear to be the only one who is watching the day fold away.  There is silence. I too close my eyes, and I listen.