It's Air And Water

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.