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
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…