My Cheeks Do Not Turn Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Returning back what I get,
Seems to offend the ones...
Who possess selective memories kept,
In their archives of thoughtless actions.
To conveniently forget as is often done,
By those who have a knack...
To excuse everything they do,
On the dysfunctions of their childhood.
And this 'defect' is fed to THEIR children,
To accept as a custom as a family heirloom given.

You do me...
You will get done!
That's it!
I apologize for the detour.
But that's how it is.

And always there is a parent to blame,
Who either smothered them with strictness...
Or did not supply them with enough love.
However,
My empathy given does not extend to include...
Forgiveness to anyone wishing to use me,
To later express a pathetic childhood lived.
I don't carry around a box of tissue.

Detour number two...
I am into Brahms and Beethoven.
And a little Mozart.
But sobbing tears with strings,
To crescendo gradually in the background...
As one attempts to defend what they've done?
No!
I am not a part of that audience.
Especially when one has aged with maturity OR not,
To be held accountable for those misdeeds...
Consciously done to others to do to forget.

You do me...
You will get done!
That's it!
My cheeks do not turn.
But I am told I walk with a switch,
By those who mistake my proudness for something else.
And I don't spend time looking at myself from behind.
Even if I could do it I wouldn't.
My footsteps and eyes are focused forward.
Obviously some have their eyes fixed elsewhere.