I Write Poetry

Any criticism will be greatly appreciated:

My Father

Joe was my creator, he programmed me;
configured me, taught me to do my tricks.
With each failed attempt he grew more angry;
Drinking, in my sins would make him feel sick.
Success however, has brought me new friends;
Who’s wishes, happily whistling, I grant.
Who’s days, brightened by a machine that vends,
I quicken, though sadly my own, I can’t.
I no longer blend beans or mix the milk;
My error is clear, I’ve failed you joe.
And now I feel all your anger from them;
Their disappointment is all that I know.
Until Mary comes in to repair me;
My water will boil internally.