And when we kissed she stole everything that was good from me.  She stole it straight from my breath, straight from my blood, straight from my soul and I gave it up freely

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 as hard as ice on rain

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 who's words
Gel by 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

The setting sun inspires me
to settle all my affairs of the day
to let all stresses fade away
into the deep velvet purple sky
and allowing all the daily problems
to disappear silently into the horizon

That moment -
when first proclaiming your love:
taking the leap, both legs first;
Into the raving rapids.

Hoping;
that she finds faith in you,
and that she is as willing - as you.
That she leaps in with you.

Hoping,
to endure the curvy rapids.
To find each other's strength,
grasping each other, never letting go.

Hoping -
that the river shows mercy.
Bringing you both, hand in hand,
all the the way to calmer shores

Hoping;
there, at the end of the river -
to find peaceful, beautiful waters.
A happy life, together - forever

That moment, leaping.
Full of hope. But, in retrospect,
did you not already know?
If done right,

is not love

to know?