When one builds a robot...

Deep, underneath a perfectly normal
looking house,
in a room without sunlight,
you've built yourself
the perfect machine-
a lovely robot.

Connecting wires here and there,
it really wasn't difficult
to program her to laugh
-when you say something
that isn't funny-
to smile
-when you say she's
done something wrong-

What's easier than
drawing a smile
upon unmoving lips?
What's simpler than
painting a spark
inside dead eyes?

You killed her, slowly,
covering faults with
more layers of color,
bending her will,
because it just wasn't
strong enough.

One day you'll return home
-broken and defeated-
searching for someone
to tell you it would be alright.
When you go down to that
room without sunlight-

Do not expect
to get something
beyond a painted smile,
and synthetic sympathy.