Anger and laughter rarely share a sentence, yet Abbie's short poem "what it is" puts them side by side in its first line: a guy who "make[s] me laugh while making me angry." Everything that follows is built on that collision. The speaker is trying to name a feeling she can't quite sort out, and the poem's central idea is that the confusion is itself the evidence. If someone can make you laugh, rage, miss them and love them all at once, she suggests, what else could it be?
The construction is simple and effective. Four lines open with or revolve around "He is the only guy" or its close cousin "He is the one." This repetition works like a spotlight, and it never leaves him. The speaker's own name for herself barely appears; she exists only as the object of his effects ("make *me* laugh," "made *me* relate"). That grammar quietly says something about how overwhelming the feeling is. The "he" is never named, which lets him stand for anyone, and "guy" is a casual, slangy word that keeps the poem from sounding like a conventional love song. The speaker doesn't call him her beloved or her darling. He's just a guy, which makes the feeling sound more surprising.
The most striking device is the "while" structure. Laughing while angry, loving while hating, missing while talking: each pairs two states that should cancel each other out but instead happen at the same moment. The last pairing is the strangest. Missing someone usually means they are absent, yet here the longing arrives in the middle of a conversation with him. A reader might infer that the closeness of talking only sharpens the wish for more, or that she misses a version of him even as the real one speaks, though the poem leaves this open. Line two works differently. It says he "made me relate the word love and crazy," meaning he taught her to connect two words she had kept apart. The poem treats love as a vocabulary lesson he forced on her, and "crazy" is the word she can't separate from it.
The sound of the poem is loose, closer to speech than to verse. There is no strict meter, and the lines vary in length, with the third and fourth the most balanced. Rhyme is faint but present: "angry" and "crazy" echo each other with a shared final vowel sound, and "hating" and "talking" match on their -ing endings. These are near-rhymes, the kind that feel accidental, which suits a speaker thinking aloud. The semicolon at the end of line three links the last two claims into a pair, and the full stop after "talking" closes that run of confessions before the poem turns.
The turn comes in the final couplet, where the tone shifts from asserting to puzzling. "I don't get this feelings but" breaks off at the line end, so that the "but" hangs in mid-air. That unfinished beat acts out a hesitation, and the next line resolves it only conditionally: "If this is not love, I don't what it is." The speaker never simply says "I love him." She argues by elimination, leaving love as the one answer left standing. The word "love" appears three times in a poem about not understanding, yet its final appearance is under a negative ("if this is not love"). The title, "what it is," lowercase and in guillemets, hands the question to the reader, and the poem ends on the same words.
The grammar slips ("who make me," "this feelings," and the missing verb in "I don't what it is") give the voice an unedited, spoken feel. Whether or not they were intended, the missing word in that last line happens to be "know," so the sentence itself falls silent exactly where the speaker's certainty fails. A polished version might have been smoother but less convincing.
The poem is worth reading because it is honest about a feeling most people recognize. It doesn't decorate love with metaphors or promise anything grand. It lists contradictions plainly and trusts them to carry the argument. In six lines it shows that love is not always calm or clear, and that sometimes the best proof of it is not being able to explain it.