You are fearful when you reach the top of an eye burning, hot volcano which it’s about to explode.

You are breakfast time always want to eat caring, scrummy cereal.

You are December hoping for freezing frosty snow this year.

You are a despicable, nasty witch trying to find the last ingredient for her potions.

You are an arm holding the fresh milk from the fridge.

You are Venus hoping for the sun to cool down for the frosty winter.

You are under a soft, cuddling blanket peeking through so no-one can see you.

You are a poor puppy lost in the dark, dull streets.

You are the taste of a sour, sweet lemon.

You are the number 12 because your graceful age is 12.

You are as quick as a blood sucking cheetah running a marathon.

You are as slow as a slimy snail sliding around his slime.

You are as quiet as a little, squeaky mouse running in the sewers.

You are Jon Paul trying to show of his awesome skills at football

You are Lacey P trying to play hide and seek but she was the first person found.

You are the poem’s thread, tied nearly together like a shoelace.

You are The End.