Questions For My Creator Poem by Chima Ononogbu

I've been meaning to ask you these questions, my creator,
which I've harbored in my mind
ever since my entrance into this mortal enclave,
but over the years, toiling for days on end
under the hyperactive sun,
the questions one by one left my mind;
then I forgot them, but never lost hope of their return,
I knew they would, someday, somehow, in some electric form.

So today, just today, as the young pine and gentle rumbling wind tangled up in romance near where my head thinkingly laid
a certain airy fingers stroked me to a quietness,
then my eyes went dreary, and thereafter cowered under their lids
for fear of defiling the purity still left of them,
but then, the knock came, clacking knock,
like adolescent keys shoving against each other for a romance with a virgin lock.

For a moment the door yapped, and cracked open
and there on my mind's door stood these runaway questions
fresh as the day they flapped away as insolent birds,
one by one they flew in and billeted.

Here they are:
Was I already living before I live?
If I was already living, why didn't you ask if I wanted to live another living?
What was it you thought before you thought I should live this living?
Why didn't you consult me,
seek my consent,
before shipping me down to this living? -
This dangling basin under a mortal fire.
Oh, I remember I couldn't talk then; but you never asked if I really could talk!

Is this right, being sent away against my will?
What will be my compensation if I contest it?
How will I be recompensed for the damages I've incurred as a result of this living?
Please tell me, when will I return to the abode from which I came?
The earlier the answers the better I can think of living this living.