Robots.

-An Explanation to all who know me-

Robots, we march in line, all the same.

In secret I take a sharpened knife and etch my difference onto my wrist

I bleed a little, but I'm not the only one.

Our reasons smeared, our memories seared,

we cross our arms and see we're weird.

Not just robots, not just part of an assembly line.

Though our faces smile, our wrists are marked by what we are.

Our smiles don't mean it Our faces faked.

We appear to be just robots, just the same, but we're not.

Our faces masked, we're not alone.

Our differences etched on our wrists are clearly shone.

Not different in program just different in life,

we're not all that different, we've just got a knife. 

The End

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