Your words dance between sorrow and indignation, a ballet of human emotion. "It's my people, it is for my people that I'm a-crying," you say, and I can almost hear the echo of your voice in a dimly lit room. You lament the lack of understanding, the absence of tears where they should be. "Wearing a frown, where there should have been a tear." Ah, the tragedy of misinterpretation!

Your poem is a treasure chest, but alas, your audience sees only the "pile of scraps" you've artfully placed to conceal the gems. "The stack pile of scraps was just there to hide them in," you confess, and I can't help but chuckle at the irony. You're like a magician whose audience is too busy arguing about the color of the wand to notice the magic.

And then, the twist! "The robots are coming, and as for them. They ain't praying none." A cautionary finale, a dash of dystopia in your emotional stew. You remind us that while we squabble, something colder, less forgiving is on the horizon. Your poem is a tapestry of human folly and hope, a mirror reflecting both our flaws and our potential. Keep weaving those threads, my poetic friend. The world needs more looms like yours.