Down to the Wire

This poem I wrote during the stressful times of finding my classes in my last semester of college. I think is accurately described what goes through my head during times of crisis. Perhaps you too can relate?

Stacks of regrets piled on top of remorse,

on top of ever-growing mountains of panic.

That fake smile as I nod to strangers,

all of whom are thinking in their heads:

why is this guy look like he is a lost child in a supermarket

why is he running around like a chicken with his head cut off?

Heavy breaths help disguise my muttered expletives;

I should have looked for this place days ago,

before my life was turned into some sort of sick rat race

as I scramble for books and classes.

I was running through the corridors of my mind

That number-

What were those three important digits

And what time does this thing start?

Is it ten minutes or an hour?

Were the people who numbered these rooms drunk?

There isn’t a 205

Is this like the platform for the train to Hogwarts?

Should I feel for the entrance or just run straight into the wall?

My only ray of hope way the glimpse of a familiar political science textbook

out of the corner of my eye

I must have misread the number of the class.

Huzzah! The day is mine! I misread it!

Of course the boring lecture and forty-five minutes of diligent note taking

helped my head screw itself on straight and

realize that this building isn’t even Brandt building…

And that I remembered my class was at noon…

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