Have you ever wondered what makes poetry…poetry? One day in class years ago, my professor sprang that question on me. I could not condense the answer enough to fit it down through the bottom of my mind and out through my mouth. Some say poetry should appeal to people across generations, general enough to lend a helping hand to any corner of the human condition in whatever way necessary, a “jack of all trades” of sorts. Others say it holds up a unique lens, showing us ordinary objects and happenings in fresh ways. Many agree that such a lens consists of concrete images made up of words arranged in any style at the poet’s discretion. Lines can rhyme or not. They can have rhythm and meter or not. Poets may write them formally in a style reminiscent of feather pens and inkwells. Or, they might pen their poems casually, as someone inspired at the end of a beach day. I say it also goes like this. You come home tired after a long day, ready to crash. Yet, something inside you begs to come out. It bubbles up like a slow rise of lava. You sit down to write, yet it does not spill onto the page right away. Something holds you back. What will others think? What will YOU think? Finally, you let the words come. You finish, tempted to crumple up the paper and throw it at the wall. Maybe your writing does not embarrass you in front of others, but in front of yourself. That, my friend, makes something poetry.