My son and i

Are cut from the same damaged cloth
Easily overwhelmed by the perfection and scorn of our loved ones around us
They who
Who always think of everything
Well in advance
And speak to the rest of us
With contempt

We are the ones
Who self flaggate
Blame ourselves
lose our cool
Get upset
Hurt

Also the creative ones
But does that count
In the face of perfect order?

My self loathing kills me