The dark window pane
reflects shadows of pain
reflects the stains
that shaped my being.
Even, if I am uncertain
who he is.

Is it the violence of the past
the blows that came so fast
that shaped of our present mind?

Does time find difference
flowing awkwardly through our memory
shaping our perceptions of what is,
was, and will be?

Am I who I am because of what I’ve seen?
For each second ever changing
personality rearranging.
I stand wondering
am I a good person?