when i get nervous i cannot eat.
this is eating me alive.

High levels of cortisol,
limbic system taking control.
All this stress
leaves me a total mess.

So much studying left do
and I still have no clue.
mental breakdown makes weep,
I know i'm not getting any sleep.

I am strained
and my energy is drained.
I've got a headache
and really need a break.

gather round, as it is the season of stress:
as it nears may and june and
corners the wisps of summer that sting the air.
the scent of freedom and flights,
so close yet never close enough.

gather round, and watch as the silken spring leaves
(or, the strands of your hair)
turn inch by inch into summer screams of green
(or, the jealously burning inside you--
when you see someone smarter
see their right answer
see their paper; green and ticked and better.)

gather round, for it is almost over.

and you have worked hard- you have
(or, you have tried to)
and often that is enough.

the season of stress will fade soon,
but summer?
summer will always come.
summer sings in sun-kissed skin and lazy leaves
and blithe birds and timely trees;

gather round, to hear summer's sound.

Procrastinated all day
So here we go...
Caffeine high
Music so loud
Laptop out
Calculator ready
Let do this.

memories
feelings
tears
smiles.

after tomorrow, they'll be gone for a while.
as summer returns
and my main focus is not to learn,
i'll be alone and older by each day.
don't worry, we'll talk, they say,
but summer returns
and my loneliness yearns
for someone to talk to
but I don't want to bother you.
until august comes back
and my head goes whack,
will you speak to me,
you're not a real friend, can't you see?
I'm sorry that we didn't talk
and I feel as if I hit bedrock,
you'll act nice
and i'll think twice
about letting you back into my life
when it's filled with strife.
but i'll fail and become sad
then i'll drive you mad
until you leave
and i'll greave
until august returns.

This classroom was full at the beginning of the semester
And it didn't happen all at once
One by one students not understanding
One by one failing tests
Realizing they won't make it
And don't get me wrong
I might not too
But at least I'm still here trying

Dear God of Study,
I put my brain in your hands
Help me pass all my exams!

I'll be good all year round,
help my GPA from crashing on the ground.

All I need is a curvy C,
because that's what'll get me my degree.

Help.

I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.