It is yet
Another day at the beach,
Padding the pebble and shell-strewn shore
Weaving around the wads of
Washed-up seaweed,
Studying the driftwood.
Sometimes I come across a dead crab,
Oyster,
Or jellyfish,
All partially covered by wet muck.
I heave a stick into my hand,
Long with a sharp point,
And etch into the sand a message.
The lapping waves soon wash it away.
YOU ARE READING
Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.
