Do I look like a machine to you?
Grey with titanium and black with coal
Made up of a bunch of wires
And made up of a whole bunch of cogs?

Does my voice sound robotic to you?
Each syllable being pronounced separately,
Everything I say sounding disjointed
And said unrealistically?

Are my actions mechanical?

Are my thoughts mathematical?

Is my skin synthetic?

My emotions only apathetic?

Is everything I do dictated by some code?
A string of words and numbers that nobody knows.

Am I meant to not implode?
Retaining everything I feel and bending to your will.

Does the make up of my body seem intricate to you?
Wires weaving in and out,
Cogs placed meticulously
And levers placed randomly?

I admit my body is intricate,
But far from robotic.

All my parts are delicate,
But nothing's electronic.

My actions are radical.

My thoughts are practical.

My skin's realistic.

My emotions sympathetic.

Machines can keep going.
They don't have an expiration date.
They work, work, work
And don't get a single break.

I am but a human.
Delicate and soft.
I'm not a machine who follow it's coding.
I'm not a machine who can always do exactly what you want.

I'm not a machine.