Accustomed To Your Wishes Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

I don't owe it to no one,
To be liked.
Or pretend to be anyone else,
Than the me I am.
And will continue to be.

I have already been made accustomed,
To being examined from head to toe.
As if I am an object.
A novelty or commodity of some kind.
And my ancestors were sold.
Like animals off auction blocks.

So...
You passing judgement on me.
Or profiling me close.
Probing me wherever I go.
To attempt to make me feel,
Uncomfortable.
Does not change for me 'your' history.
At all.

One day you will come to understand,
To comprehend...
You owe me more,
For tolerating your ignorance.
For making you look better,
Than you deserve.
And putting up with your lies to tell.
With wishes to have others believe,
You found me somewhere...
Walking barefoot on a dusty road.
And you were the Angel.
Sent from Heaven to save my life.

When I was the one,
Protecting you...
From the evil wicked things you did then.
Even to me and others you knew.
And 'Still' do.

I don't owe you pretentiousness.
I did not learn that to earn,
From my ancestors.
Maybe you did from yours.
However...
I am not the one,
Who will entertain your delusions.
Or maintained fantasies.
My reality and truth to keep,
Has been too precious.
To know it not to be fictioned!

You may not know this to notice.
But...
I have long been made familiar,
And quite accustomed...
To your wants, wishes and needs.
And what you perceive to be,
Your entitlements to receive.
Me?
I'm not one of them!