Another year, another round.

Third time's a charm and yet none I've found.

Thy upper division courses slay me,

The level of work is damn near deadly.


One would think I'd crumble,

but I've yet to fall.

I've taken the occasional stumble

and woken up with no clue at all

as to why I feel like I've forgotten something.

One would think I'd be used to this feeling.


Junior year, thou art a heartless beast

with unaccompanied stresses and books I've yet to crease,

I can almost hear you, laughing at my slack.

Well just you wait: after next year, I'm done. I'm not coming back.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741