Every poet should take a vacation.
The famous, the rising, the seasoned, and the beginners alike—
A species of the introspective
Should have a mandated time away from thinking too much.

Lest the brain and heart, working in tandem,
Not only to power the body
But also the pen,
Look at each other, then to its restless host,
To clock out on its own time—
Frustrated and fatigued,
Leaving the poet to fend for themself
In what is known as burnout.

Every person who has taken the time to think out and write a verse
Should take even more to walk barefoot along a sandy shoreline,
With the smell of salt and seaweed and skin
Overwhelming your senses.

And folks with tattoos walking around
That the elderly give disapproving glances at,
And crabs that gently nip at your heels when you get a little too close.
The sun giving you red cheeks and a sore back,
A stranger giving you a suggestive eye,
And—well, it seems I’ve disproved my point.