I have seven little shadows,
And they constantly follow me around.
One is called timid,
And it barely peeps a sound.
The other is joy,
And like a toddler with a toy
Their shadow is bright and quite a sight.
Then there's the one previewed by red,
Love is peculiar, and watches what she says.
I can't forget about it's counter, hate.
It can come in so many different states.
They have a confusing and confound relationship those two,
They run on a thin line, but are both completely true.
Anger has its perks,
Hes the one that gets me pumped when a child spills yogurt all down my shirt,
Hes quite the jokester too,
Bringing sarcasm with hurt.
Then theres depression, hes a scary lot.
Sensitive and small,
Peculiar and a lover of the term ' to stall'.
And as much as I love my shadows,
The last is least.
Lost, number seven, is the one constantly with me.
He touches my shoulder and I won't know where I am.
Or he'll play with my hair, and nothing quite matters anymore.
Even if it's just a curl, just a small strand.
