questioning

I came across an old poem of mine today, written almost exactly 6 years ago, and decided to rework it.

questioning

what makes me
what I am
today - March, sunny, early spring
what where who
have I been
have I been at all

nothing shows
nothing shows, really, does it
a few lines on my face, maybe,
but that is just my age
where are the scars
but you won´t see me naked
and the hooks in the flesh where I failed

my eyes do not show
what they saw
but I lost my way in the dark
my hands do not tell
whom I´ve known
what I learned

Man is the sum of his sufferings
the rest is history
blind man´s buff
a blank page