The robot knows all.
Inside its memory banks
Are years upon years
Of stored information.
Electronic connections
Make that information
Easily accessible,
A single command away.
The robot always knows
What is right and what is wrong
When to act and when to wait
When to back down and when to fight.
It knows when dreams are only dreams
And when there is a chance
Those dreams
Can become reality.
These commands, and so many more
Are locked within the files.
Stored in strict folders
Organized
Easy to find.
But also stored within these files
Are the memories.
Memories of loneliness.
Sometimes the robot
Wishes it could just be shut down
Turned off.
Or wishes
It could get rid of its memory banks
And replace them with feelings.
Replace them, so it wasn’t so obvious
Who was human
And who was not.
But the robot knows
That metal does not feel
That it is, and always will be
Cool as ice,
Unfeeling as stone,
Oblivious to the delicate nuances
Of human culture.
So nestled in between
The files of information
Are the memories
Of the tears
Of being alone.