Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

parents would leave me soon, I could feel it, they always smiled a little bit more when we made trips like these, I would be hauled into the car, gripping what little luggage I could throw together, and sent to a relatives for the night. There, I would be ushered into an assuredly uncomfortable and terrifying room, and left in the dark with the instruction to rest. I was six now, and perhaps I would finally be permitted to stay out a little longer. I

bowed her head, shoulders shaking. The room began feeling smaller and smaller, the walls seem to enclose on Alice. She stood there, sunken eyes staring back at her before her hand swung open the petite cabinet door to reveal what she wanted most. The little bottle of pills called to her before she frantically unscrewed the lid with her shaky hands and took it to her mouth. She let the antidepressants slide down her throat. The weight of everything seemed to press down on Alice’s shoulders as she struggled

did not make any mistakes. Over my years of writing I have enhanced my expressiveness, originality, and creativity. Growing up, I loved writing poems. My love for poems developed from listening and loving nursery rhymes such as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Mary Had A Little Lamb, Ring around the Rosie, and many others. When I was five years old, I wrote and presented a poem of mine in my church auditorium with members present. I had anger problems growing up, and my psychologist taught me to let out

“Twinkle, twinkle little star, how you wonder what we are…” The ghostly figures sing, standing in the hall. Everything goes dark, but Daniel can hear voices talking. He is unable to make out what they are saying though. It sounds like a different language of some kind. There is one word he is able to recognize, ‘Virgo’. “Hello, what is going on?” Daniel says, hoping for some kind of answer. The chatter of voices continues, as if Daniel said nothing. “When the blazing Sun is gone…” Repeats as it did

under a “hostile” environment. (My dad went to MU.)The songs that I had practiced over from June to October were mere child’s play compared to other competitors in the group who played pieces like Claire de Lune and the 12 Variations of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (no one in middle school

Description of Center 1 The minute I walked in the students were at play. Primarily there was a lot of dramatic play going on. I overheard a conversation between two boys: Student 1: "Pretend my dinosaur just got struck and you be the doctor and pretend I call you on the phone. What’s your phone number?" Student 2: "Mmmmm... 22265" Student 1: "Ok. Hello Doctor, the dinosaur got struck, come quick, he has a torn leg. Can you come over?" Student 2: "ok..ok" I kept observing around the

of McDonald’s to get me a chocolate shake. And during the trip to his house, we would talk about our day and the exciting things that had occurred. Although we talked about many different things on our way to his house, we always sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. I remember looking out the windows while we sang and admired the beauty of the night. Coming up to the big red barn I knew that we were almost there. My grandparents lived near Saint Peter, Minnesota on Lake Washington. And every night

females doing certain things, and I thought I had to do that exactly. The female rappers of my day spoke about sex a lot and I thought that to have the success they got; I would have to represent the same thing. Minaj was named the 2011 Rising Star by Billboard. Brent Staples of The New York Times

My Passion for Music “Bulletin board, bulletin board, bulletin board,” I muttered as I slowly trotted down the hallway, dreading the problem at hand. I was being forced to join a club, as it was required at our prestigious school. I thought to myself, “Well, it costs about $8000 dollars a semester, and there is no way that I am going to get in trouble for refusing to join a club. And anyway, how will joining a club affect my future? I’m eleven years old, this time of my life doesn’t matter

My story begins at the age of six. I am standing in my school uniform with a stain on my shirt from the ice cream my mother gave me on the ride there. My little sister, Gianni, lay in hospital bed staring at the polysterene tiled ceiling. There was nothing much else to look at save the cheap print of an uplifting pastel on the opposite wall. The air had a stagnant smell of bleach and sickness. My parents paced back and forth occasionally glancing forced reassuring smiles to my sister. We heard a