Its Air And Water Poem by Mark Heathcote

Are our poems assortments of random thoughts?
Thrown at an empty page like tomahawks
From-breath to ink are they doing somersaults?

Do our spilt words make a splash do they bleed
What's the germination time for this seed?
Did it grow a flower does it succeed.

Funny how much passion goes into it
Like music blown-through a small reed equip
At making your heart sings in fellowship.

We poets have no choice, its air and water.
Coursing through our blood, at first its torture
And later, revels of a goal scorer.