Fickle are the weary hearts Of these eight children, once pure and true One was sweet and kind, a lover through and through The second was hard and cruel, and thought everyone a fool The third shed many tears, of things that mattered not The forth played many pranks, harmless so they thought The fifth child, they were wise, and clever in the day The sixth child was loud, and felt they never got their way The seventh child of the bunch, they were not made of much, but hollow bones and silence, invisible they strut The eighth child was made of chaos, but kept the peace instead And all these children live with me, trapped inside my head.
Welp here's my 5 minute warm up so my profile wouldn't look so empty