The autumn leaves a golden glow
Against the cloudy sky.
The screens welcome the soulless winds.
Her laptop sits nearby.

Sitting in her fav’rite blue chair,
Typing her fifth vignette.
Praying that it will end real soon.
Her week’s not over yet.

Not alone in that evil cell,
Around friends sit beside.
They’re different, but similar.
Still all their goals allied.

They don’t talk or laugh, only work.
Clicking-finger quartet.
The rhythm of college and stress.
Her week’s not over yet.

Her eyelids melt over her view.
Silence lulls her to sleep.
It will only take a moment.
Her subconscious hides deep.

“No! There’s no time for that right now!
Wake up and don’t forget.
Every second counts,” she exclaimed
Her week’s not over yet.

Lab report for biology,
Paper for dear Shakespeare,
Presentation for theatre arts,
Long academic year!

No time for a balanced dinner,
Slacking will cause regret.
Too late, there’s no going back now.
Her week’s not over yet.

Like her hope, focus fades away.
Her battery now dies.
Trips on her backpack getting up.
Paper, from her hand, flies.

“It’s moments like this one, I loathe,”
She yells, calms down, but frets.
Her friends help her to clean them up.
Her week’s not over yet.

Sunlight disperses, moon takes reign.
One by one, they finish.
The fruit of their efforts gathered,
Her smile diminish.

The free students pass without chains.
“Have no worries,” she bets.
She has never had that freedom.
Her week’s not over yet.

Midnight has passed and all are gone.
Wooden chairs, red couch left
In a quiet room, dorm, and world.
Of joy, she is bereft.

Night’s symphony plays from afar.
Her work, sanity’s threat.
Inching near to the end.
Her week’s not over yet.

Weary soul in need of slumber.
Apathy controls her.
Too many nights were similar.
Distractions still occur.

Diction, syntax, figurative too
Within the paper set.
Theme, understanding, and purpose.
Her week’s not over yet.

Open the window for cool air,
Her brain’s overheated.
Chugging down fresh, fountain water.
Here she feels defeated.

The comfort of the chair is gone.
Pressure has led to sweat.
So close, so near, within her reach.
Her week’s not over yet.

A single sentence and it’s done.
Hour’s work has meaning.
There’s no celebration for her.
Can’t stand, so she’s leaning.

Practically morning on campus.
Her head hurts, she feels bleak.
But she can admit to herself,
“It’s over and I’m weak.”