Questions Poem by H E Alexander

When did I become me?
Can I blame my parents for the genes
or their love, lack of, or guidance?
Was it the pressure of my peers in my teens?
The rules and laws imposed for abidance,
influenced to what degree?

Why am I like I am?
My sense of humour came from where?
And my fears, my worries, my loves and likes,
the beliefs and standards to which I adhere?
To how I am different, and to what alike,
made me into this man?

Is it only her
that has held me here and kept me sane?
Is it only love that has made me love,
that taught me kindness and made me humane?
And I wonder, have I really done enough
to temper my anger?

This ire within
sits dormant inside my heart; my soul aches
with an emptiness that loneliness brings.
I wait till the weight of this restraint awakes
the fury, as it erupts and breaks from its strings
and seeps through my skin.

The questions I pose
of myself constantly haunt my imperfect mind:
am I all that ever I could have been?
Were my motives true and my love condign?
Was I me, or what I wanted to be seen?
No matter, the end is close.