It’s easy for anyone to associate harmony with music. I’m no exception. I’ve been an alto since I learned how to sing, Dedicating the past seven years to rhythmic consonance. That’s not the case for what’s in my heart. In fact, the past seven years, I’ve felt at constant war with myself. Ironic, coming from a pacifist. I can’t love my neighbor as myself, If I’ve never known that feeling. I’ve been taught to despise Every one of my imperfections, Learned how to hide my flaws; Nothing but perfection was accepted. None of my friends know the depth of sadness, The dark in my heart, Or the intensity of my rage. I don’t know who I am, Or who I want to be. Nothing about my emotional state Sings like a four-part harmony. Nothing goes together, It’s all a mess, Pointlessly swept under the carpet And I hope against hope No one is smart enough to look underneath. I can’t write about peace If I never seem to relax. I can’t pretend I’m alright When I stress over everything. I’ve never known harmony Outside of sheet music, And I’m terrified I never will.