The Nature of Man

A poem I wrote as an entry for my school's annual poetry book.

The nature of man, disputed is such

The nature of sight, of taste, of touch

The nature of evil, the nature of good

All that is questioned and misunderstood

 

What is God? What is not?

What is fact, what is thought?

Who are those condemned to rot?

Does benevolence exist for naught?

 

Man, by nature, is sanguinary

And equity plays as adversary

Who am I to question it?

If not me, who mentions it?

 

If, then, man is born to hate

Where did good originate?

If he found it within himself

What prompted rise from silent stealth?

 

Did it, one day, decide to surface?

Chaotically, without a purpose?

Such an event of isolation

And in that, I see no consolation

 

I cannot call myself a visionary

And my words, I fear, are unnecessary

So many others that came before me

Sought to know the human being

 

The timeless search throughout the ages

Philosophers and musing sages

Questioned all they are inside

Questioned still, but so do I

 

I have to say, in my cynical thoughts

There's something my attention's caught

Whether man is good or bane

We all exist still the same

 

That, itself, is a miracle alone

Something I still wish to know

I've always questioned everything

A hardened skeptic, so it seems

 

I still live from day to day

Enjoying the miracle anyway

But always somewhere within my mind

Will return the question "What am I?"