Go look up some poems by Philip Larkin. Like this one. It's called "This Be The Verse": They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Or this one, "Next, Please":
Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear, Sparking armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste! Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinkled,
Each rope distinct, Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong: Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.
