So, I'm perched atop my study stool,

removed from social interactions. 

I've become a slave to post-secondary school.

I derive equations, not satisfactions.

I've been solving for x longer than I can recall, 

but in question of my happiness I've no answer to scrawl.

Concepts that took smart men years to create

become vague mists in a mind with a declining absorption rate. 

"In deep water". "All burned out". I've heard of the phrases

mostly in relation to combustion equations. 

I literally dream in code, I count semicolons in my sleep.

I organize my life within the cells of an Excel spread sheet. 

I'm better at making graphs than I am at conversation.

I'm the only one in Facebook fights that gives a source citation.

Every time I drop the E bomb (engineering),

I get a hint of the pretentiousness people think I'm conveying.

Forgive me, but I'd rather master implicit differentiations

than to study in depth Freudian concepts and their phallic associations

Or whatever it is liberal arts guys do...

 No, seriously, I have no idea about you.

I can't alphabetize a thing without first singing the alphabet.

I haven't mastered the complexities of my microwave yet.

I know multiples of numbers to the power of 25.

I have the potential to design electronic contraptions that save lives

But when approached by a cute member of the opposite gender

My words are as intelligible as Ozzy Osborne in all his spoken splendor.

Artists call me cold, uninspired, or dead.

They can’t for themselves fathom why I chose math and science instead

Of scribbling my days away behind some charcoal and some papers,

Never understanding we both share our passions with our coffeemakers.

I’m just as alive as a writer on a good day,

The difference is my work can’t be wrong in any way.  

Math and physics are absolutely near and dear to my heart. 

I say to artists, people can connect to things other than poetry or art.

There are people in their right mind who do enjoy the torture

of studying for years to design a mechanically efficient motor. 

My calc professor gets high off the smallest mathematical pursuits.

Arguably, what he enjoys is reveling in the fruits of emotional abuse.

For every artist, there's a critic. For every engineer,

There's just too much that can go wrong so please just buy me a beer.

I'm under more pressure than the support beams on a building.

Please, for the love of god, save me from engineering...

After my test tomorrow though.

I'm trying bump my GPA closer to a 4.0.