me with all my pulpy parts,
and you stand there so shiny and sterile.
feelings feel like how dirty feels,
and the robot, algorithms,
cogs turning wheels.
I go with guts that bleed so messy,
its risks are cut crisp,
it’s the precision that gets me.
while i flail in broad and fluttered strokes,
the robot’s canvas is precision,
mine is watercolored messes,
diluted streaks of hope.
I and the robot share no will,
but the hearty mess in me
is envious still.