What is poetry?

I write poetry for my own amusement, I assume it to be poetry. I have never had any formal teaching on how to write poetry but I had a desire to put words to paper to save lest they be lost. because through my life and I have lived a lot of years I have had thoughts that I wish I had put into written form but they like a puddle in hot sunlight have evaporated. Many things, thoughts and dreams have evaporated, gone into the ether of life. Gone forgotten, sometimes just beyond my grasp a fleeting memory but so faint to have no form, a shadow disappearing out of the corner of my eye there but not there. I took to having a pencil and paper near by say by the bed or never far away! Of course when you have the means to record these fast vanishing thoughts the masterpiece the recall of these wonderful toys of your play on words I never remember them, those wonderful imaginings when aroused from sleep. Those thoughts that rush in and tickle the grey matter and are gone only come when there is no chance of recording them. So the stuff I put to paper is never the good stuff the wonderful images I paint with words in my subconscious remain there in the sub subconscious just out of reach. The wonders are never recorded, no the ones that escape are the ones I wish to write down. But those that do get written they are the dross the far distant cousin the one who is unkempt unshaven and down at heel. The one with whom I wish not to be associated. The poetry I write it is inferior of far lesser quality than that that escapes. The good stuff never gets recorded it is just out of reach, that illusive mist, the vapour that is unable to be bottled. A wisp on the wind an illusive ghost there but beyond reach. So as I ask myself "what I write is it poetry" what will the answer be? The answer is also a sprite who is fast of foot and speeds away the answer is I don't know. The answer is like the question "what is"? It will remain as such until I am strong enough to say "this is" but for now I remain weak and in the back of my mind keep asking, asking for permission to be able to say "this is and it is mine"

I have just re read this post two years on. I haven’t put pencil ✏️ to paper much at all this year. Lockdown has been to horrible that I haven’t wanted to record any of it. Maybe it’s time for change and I need to get my thoughts down on paper. Maybe it will help my mental health?