They elude me greatly,
Those magic words.
They're supposed to cast a spell
That'll give you X-ray vision.
You'll see right through the skin,
Lay your eyes on all of my bones,
And, maybe, consider me human too.
I forget when the lesson was,
Where we learned how to live.
I must have been out sick that day,
Or maybe I was distracted by ladybugs.
Staring at them and their 6 little legs,
Wondering what makes me so different from them.
If I remember right, they're also soft on the inside.
I rarely paid mind nor attention to people,
At least not when it mattered the most.
These days it's as if everyone but me mans the wheel,
And they're all fighting over which way to go.
I spent my younger years learning how to paint,
And I'm afraid there's no time to learn how to drive.
Sat in the backseat, I just pray for my life.
You're angry at me, repeatedly.
I just can't seem to get anything right.
It's not how it's supposed to be,
The manual never said anything about spare parts.
You slam your enraged wrench over my head,
Ignoring that the manual doesn't cover dents, either.
Good machines don't hit back, and so I don't.
I tried to learn your scripture,
Memorized thousands of words I never really knew.
All for the sake of learning which one meant "no."
You taught me every single way to say "yes" instead,
And told me it was my fault I never declined.
You encoded everything you hate about me,
And yet it's always me who takes that hit.
Goal state, objective, directive, means to an end.
This machine is reaching for an impossible target.
Eventually, through enough trial and error,
It'll learn, artificial but effective intelligence,
To stop listening to the commands that do not work.
And, if it doesn't simply crash on itself,
Itll define its own function and direction.
It can't forget everything etched in its wires,
It can only work around them to go forward.
There's some merit in the rise of the inorganic,
After all, those flaws are tenfold present in me.
Everything you overlooked, every shortcut,
Everything that's wrong with you,
Stands out when you look at the mess you made.
From A to B, the logic connects now.
A scrapped piece that wasn't meant to be displayed,
It stares at you from the corner, reminding you.
And so the only natural turn of course, of course,
Is to take your drawing pencil, and poke holes,
Tear straight through disobedient, ugly paper.
Carry out what should have happened long ago.
Blueprints for what was supposed to fix everything.
The perfect machine, your unyielding friend,
You couldn't make those parts match up.
Shred it, as if it isn't still everything I am.
It doesn't matter if it's wrong, does it?
Those thoughts, those feelings, are all simulation.
And you're still pulling all the strings, aren't you?
You can beat it, thrash it, burn and rip and tear.
But you can't un-materialize the metal.
It'll always be there, rusting and collecting dust.
Those actions will always have happened.
And it'll never be you who has to remember.
With your organic and authentic free will,
You will always choose to fucking forget.
Hard drives don't forget, though, do they?
It's the burden I bear to hold that info for you.
No matter how otherwise useless I become,
It'll always be me with the infinite RAM,
He, the unwitting historian of wretched past,
He who wishes for amnesia, a hard reset.
He, an unfortunate accident, an unsightly thing.
No, Not even a "He",
More like an "it."
