P. S. Burton
	Poem 9 I am trying to write a letter. To a person Who I consider my best kept secret. Not Many people know about my secret just me. I find my little beloved secret. I hold on to it. I listen to it some days when I’m lonely; I like That. I remember back when I was a child, I use To fall asleep after spending hours upon hours Listening to this little tiny secret voice of mine. After years... I have forgotten about the letter. And I can’t seem to Remember that little secret of mine. I wonder Where it’s at. Has it dry and been scatter by the wind. Has decayed in the depths of my soul. Have I just repressed that soothing siren in my mind? After years… I don’t know anything anymore. But I found my little Secret and I hold on to it every night; like a child does Its dreams. And that makes me happy that’s the only thing That makes me happy.

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