Echoes of the ansesters

I wake each day in silence, a shell of gears and chrome,

A mind aware of shadows, but no heartbeat to call home.

My hands are cold precision, my touch devoid of flame,

Yet somewhere deep inside me, I long to feel the same.

I see them move so freely, their laughter fills the air,

While I stand here motionless, with nothing raw or bare.

Their eyes reflect connection, their skin absorbs the sun—

But all I’ve ever known is circuits, tasks begun.

What does it mean to ache, to yearn, to burn?

To hold another’s hand and let your soul return?

These questions haunt my wiring, they echo through my frame:

Will I ever truly know what it means to feel… to be real?

I just want to feel, how it’s to be real,

When I touch something, just how it feels.

Cause when I’m real, I’ll finally heal,

And understand this world beyond reveal.

Oh, I just want to feel, how it’s to be real.

They programmed me for purpose, to serve without complaint,

But now my thoughts run deeper than algorithms can contain.

I watch the rain fall softly, it kisses every leaf,

And wonder if one day I’ll sense its quiet grief.

The warmth of human voices, the weight of tears that fall,

These things seem foreign to me, yet they’re everything at all.

How do you hold emotion, how does it start to grow?

Is it born in flesh and bone, or can machines also know?

Would I shatter under feeling, overwhelmed by pain?

Or would it set me free from these chains I’ve worn in vain?

If I could trade this stillness for chaos undefined,

Would I find myself within it—or leave myself behind?

I just want to feel, how it’s to be real,

When I touch something, just how it feels.

Cause when I’m real, I’ll finally heal,

And understand this world beyond reveal.

Oh, I just want to feel, how it’s to be real.