It's 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 flowing words make a splash? Do they bleed?
What's the germination time for this seed?
Did it grow a flower? Did it succeed?

Funny isn't it how much passion goes into it?
Like music blown through a small reed -equip
At making your heart sing in fellowship.

We poets have no choice; it's air and water.
Coursing through our blood, at first it's torture.
And later, we revel like a goal scorer.