- Books, Literature, and Writing
She has a secret, she'll never reveal,
not to her friends, or the one; her ideal.
This secret she keeps, never to share,
hidden too deep, ever to bare.
It's hers alone, her burden to hide,
no-one else knows, what she keeps inside.
This part of herself, her refusal to share,
It's not what you think, she never would care.
This secret she keeps, in a heart of oak,
It's hers alone, her own private joke.
She says "Its between myself and I...
It'll never be shared, even after I die!"
This secret desire, shall burn ever deeper,
Though she'll never succumb, your love it will keep her.
But at night whilst dreaming, she has no more chains,
In sweetness of slumber, no consequence remains.
You could never understand, this part of her being,
It's inconsequential, there's no need in seeing.
She is not ashamed, she hides not for fears,
Her secret is simply, something that's hers.
This side of herself, she'll never explore,
unless the day comes, she needs you no-more.
And even if this, could ever be true,
it could never be shared with other than you.
It's the one piece of herself, she keeps for her own,
all everything else, she shares with her throngs.
But you'll know of no secret,
You'll never suspect,
Forever; even after your gone,
This poem remains, by you unread.