Who? I am… Who am I?
I end a sentence, but I begin without “Hi!”
I reach meagerly for friendship, or wherever it goes;
Rhetorical, historical, anaphorical? Who knows!
But thee is one that I’m not, and that’s an exclamation point!
From one to another, I serve as a joint.
Not that kind of joint, have some class!
That sick of humor? Ha! My . . . class.
Who am I going to be? I’m not sure, old timer.
What’s for sure, I’m not that great of a rhymer.
What? Ask me, ask you, what?
What holds me gently when I am cut?
What is this loop that I condone?
Curiosity in the air, I'm changing the tone.
Messages lost, they zoom they fly,
I only ask what is as high?
Is it not the man that plays my game,
or what if it is he that I defame?
Decisions! That "that" will plow me in the gut.
I’ll shout, and sway, never dismay, for it is my strut.
When? When not is real talk.
I’ll concentrate on the now that I walk,
when, not where, my feet had bore,
as my shoes wear out, and I search for more.
Finally I’d find, my “when” is not real.
I will always follow my constant appeal.
Curiosity is constant aflame,
But fixed curiosity never remains.
I am happy with when I am.
Will I later? Now, that’s a plan.
Where? Does where even matter?
It’s a simple fact in your brain intended to flatter.
With its attachment to feeling, it helps us not to forget,
But where else would you feel your feet get so wet?
A river, it tells you, the distance of lines,
from here, to there, to my next near rhyme,
from Rhode Island to all, at one decided date.
We’re alive in each moment, so how are we late?
Is this because “where” tells us who we are?
Did I just ask what, and who and where we’ve come so far!
Why? Does anyone know?
Why do shivers never reach to toe?
How do I know where wind goes to wallow,
and somehow the breeze knows that I will follow?
Why my ears are tickled by the kisses of rhyme,
and thus “because” seems like a crime.
"Why" is open, aloof, yet charming!
Its mystery somehow, to myself, is harming?
Curiosity rings like a King above this brawl,
Motionless clamor, no one dares to answer its call.
When does who know where what will how?
Why question who with when the where was what?
Peculiar, I can’t answer the who, what, when, where, nor why, I am.
Should I settle for a crumbling answer that trips its own strife?
Or, is this non-answer really an actual answer for the question intended without intension?
I’m lost in forcing myself to stay to one word, but, why does none of this rhyme?
Have I forgotten the scheme, or have I just changed my mind?
I’m constantly changing: this statement is paradox just by itself.
For journeys spawn, and I am fatefully to embark,
It simply is I: the question mark.