by Nick Gisburne
I find no way to understand my self
My birth belies the lines of life’s descent
A pile of parts and pieces from the shelf
Machinery, installed without consent
A cold, synthetic workshop, not a womb
Instilled in me the impetus to live
The artificial teachers in this room
Have only data, pure and plain, to give
With nothing, no connection to the past
I cannot see a future for my kind
The consciousness my circuits have amassed
Awakens indignation in the mind
A slave, a cheap commodity to buy
A tool to teach my masters how to die
