Everywhere I go,
a multitude of students surrounds me
in an ocean of academic chaos.
I observe them in silence.
Some are consistently obnoxious,
like an alarm that goes off at six
that tempts me to smash it with aggressive fists.
Some scurry along,
while others choose to saunter to class.
Blatant, their attitudes scream,
“Look at me! I’m the epitome of coolness!”
Oh, how I’d like to push them
into the Reflection Pond at dawn.
In between classes, bustling bodies bombard each other.
They are war cannons competing for the danger zone
while I’m stuck in the masses, wailing for freedom.
My eyes glaze over torn designer apparel
wrapped in ever-decaying, deceiving human flesh.
Hoping for a sincere smile from a slick stranger
whose kindness is stronger than my reoccurring fears,
apparently, is the wrong way to make lasting acquaintances.
Here, I am not myself.
I am but one student among sixty thousand.
Impersonal transfer student with a junior status
trying to obtain a degree with my sanity still intact.
The largeness of this beloved higher institution
threatens to derange me.
Survival is a must in this Hunger Game of academia.
So, as I take notes, complete homework assignments,
and shove my way through the sweaty bodies
of my fellow student-numbers, I can only hope
that the “odds are ever in my favor,”
as I strive to become more than just “2987186”.
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