Secret Place
There’s a secret place I go,
when all the world is dead and cold.
I sit in my treehouse and watch the cars,
or lie on my back and count the stars.
I pick myself a bouquet or two,
bring it inside my mind to fight the gloom.
With my journal and my pen in hand,
I write about this secret land.
No one’s there to lecture me,
on how to act or who to be.
I can just sit quietly by myself
and put my fears up on a shelf.
And if one day you find I’m gone,
know I’ve packed up and just moved on
to my secret place, where I will roam,
that secret place I’ll call my home.
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