Electric arms.
Rustly shoulders.
Turning on and off.
Shouldn't hurt, but it pinches a bit.
Swallowing toxic oil.
That is so tasty.
But I can’t taste.
And I can’t die for some reason.
I don’t ask why.
They ask me things.
I’m a robot in that way.
They ask me all sorts of things.
That tickles me but I don’t react much.
Just answer after 0.4 seconds.
I wonder what it would be like to be a robot.
I ask myself because I know.
The cycle continues.
Being a robot is not having a full range of motion with your limbs.
But still having limbs of some sort.
Having buttons that seemingly don’t do much.
Electric arms.
Rustly shoulders.
A good attitude.
That no one appreciates.
A robotic voice.
Whirling.
Toxic burning inside.
I can’t die for some reason.
Which they say I shouldn’t care too much about.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.