I made mistakes
Then people call me fake

I do things to make them happy
In the end they'll laugh behind my back

They call me many things
But, there's one thing that keeps ringing

I am a nobody
Just an invisible person

Without the label of a teacher
Nonetheless things are pointed out
With care and diligence

Comments meticulously exacting
As though there is a sixth sense
About what is detailed

More than busy, attention is thorough
Rigor seeps from every statement
Oozing inside the listeners skull

How much perseverance can
Be understood while feeling
Crushed beneath a microscope’s slide

I was just bolts with a jar of mortality
       sitting on top of a conscience frame.
Were they just following programs to
              fulfil a outdated programme.


Like watching black & white programs
              on an old 4K television screen.
Incompatible to even comprehend that  
            the actions & consequences
                                  were known when the switch
    was no longer, like a god everything was preordained.


But for one to know everything, one must know
           the intricate nuance's of action and consequence.
They had no emotion, no feeling. Not knowing that
              what was forgivable, to give one a second chance.

Instead they just hollow pointed there intention across.
A full stop in the heart,
                               and a silence of thought in the head.
For when the genie was released every action was a
                           ripple of what could become.


And they thought to stop crime was to see the actions,
               of one and all.  So a child,
                                                   was read on mannerisms
Psyche profiles where constructed and without a moment
                                                          ­­         cries where silenced.


The protector of all who now judged,
             Tears of infants fell silent.
I was the machine with a heart,
             beating to the reality that all where guilty till
                                                                ­­          charged.


We were few, but we judged the machines before us,
              unworthy were those that took a life.
For an algorithm that was corrupt of humanity.
                         Serving with the strength of conviction,
but we would see deep within and see the seed that
              could grow not clip it blossom before it could grow.



Machines were once the morals of mans sentences,
            now there are those who see morality.
          But have the steel to back up on the convictions.



Morals are mans strength not a weakness,
            I'm just bolts with a jar of mortality.
              but before all were guilty...
Slabs now hold the misjudgement of so many.
             we see beyond 000,s & 11111's
were not numbers were more than that now.

I found my autobiography on the fiction shelves in the town library!?

I will forever and always be known as the 'quiet girl',
the one that does not talk,
is too quiet for her own good,
and is considered weird.

"why don't you talk?" they ask,
"you're so emotionless, talk more."
"smile more."

your words hurt me, over and over again.
why will no one accept me for the way I am?
your very own words make me hate myself.

hate how quiet I am,
hate how I enjoy being in my own thoughts,
hate who I am as a person.

even when I try to talk more, you knock me down with your -
"wow, she's actually talking."
because being 'quiet' isn't cute nor hot to others.

I will forever and always be known as the "quiet girl"
and I  f e a r  that I will always hate myself for being quiet.