Against my will, I’ve acquired this skill.
I’ve mastered the art of fault-picking,
I excel at depreciating.
Still, urgently seeking something diminishing,
Secretly yearning -
To combat flaws I’m dissecting.
For some sort of force to pull me?
Up to standards I don’t fulfil,
Down from aching self-worth, still.
And just like my dad,
I mask my sad.
Mutually we intellectualise our wounds,
Seemingly, we’re bound.