It is a symphony of distortion
That unfolds before my weary eyes
A complicated but intricate body of work
I fight daily not to reprise

The opening sonata is slow, yet eerily intriguing
Simply starting with a beating heart
Never knowing the tempo each day will bring
Due to inconsistent sight reading from the various nourishing parts

Switching to adagio brings a fluidity of movement
Though the pace is still quite slow
An integration of crux and marrow can be painfully tedious
Thus suspending vital balances and flow

A minuet seeks to pull these things together
The lively dance of mind, body, and soul
While entertaining and fun, it can bring about an urge for perfection
Inciting an overwhelming loss of control

Finally, a sonata-rondo gradually calms the madness within this body of work
Accenting an inotation that is both a bright and hopeful sound
Yet, it still holds tempo, not willing to relinquish
The rigid temperament previously found

I think guilt might be killing me.
Now you may ask yourselves: "What did I do to feel so?"
- **** someone?
No. Nothing so radical.
In fact, nothing that might actually warrant this level of guilt.

Misplaced guilt is like my personal ******* -
an addiction that my brain can't get rid of, constantly calling to be fed.
I latches on every small mistake
Sinks its claws deep into the marrow of my bones
and stews for a very long time -
whilst my brain vainly strives towards perfection.