Symphony Poem by Elliot Chance

Sweat drips down my temple-
I am Beethoven, writing a great symphony,
Although it holds no melody,
Each note is filled with agony,
Each staff is filled with sorry,

For I will write the rhythm produced-
Each piece, I will make my own,
Each song, a custimimized creation of art,
All expressing my feelings toward you,

As tempo increases, so does my rage,
The ink, filling the paper with refrains of anger,
A madness all of my own,

Why do I feel this way?
What happened to me?
What happened to the pleasant prelude I created for my piece,

Where did it go?
Each note becomes a staccato,
Abrupt.
Painful.
The harmony no longer exists,
It no longer holds a place in this piece,
Which was my only wish.