What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts
Late nights
With coffee , tea , or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear
And the struggles and pain
As the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling down and getting back up again
Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage
One who struggles
With the a\'s and the\'s
Should one even use
The apostrophe
One whose words
Gel at the witching hour
Words full of promise
Warnings so dour
But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
A true poet\'s heart