Poetry, for me, is

the waves,

and the warm water, lapping at your feet.

It’s the sand between your toes.

The sun on your face,

even when it hurts,

because you don’t know the difference, until that night,

when your skin’s red and peeling.

It’s the things you don’t know you’ll miss until they’re gone.

It strolls down the sunny streets

in flip-flops,

walks barefoot through the

beach at night.

Poetry knows no bounds

because it,

like you,

is drunk,

on freedom.