undergrad dystopia.

the classes start at eight but they don’t truly ever end
every professor says the same set of words a thousand times,
I try and grasp a couple i can make sense of into a little rhythmic rote
degrees are a hoax, everybody knows,yet I
stare blankly at the projector screens until every word grows into a fuzzy mess
and my eyes focus into little dots of red.
the breaks come and go, a blur, but sometimes
mom sends in reminders to eat, so I
run to the nearest pantry to get myself
a piece of bread stuffed with too much salt and raw onion
and too little nutritional value
and I'm callous enough to call it a meal.
our campus is known for the engineers it sculpts from raw stone
the ones that remember lines of stack overflow code
or where every screw fits in every other piece of equipment
but even the most accomplished of students fail
when asked to recall the last time they had a full eight hours of sleep
we pride ourselves in poor posture and poorer addictions that are
still more acceptable than their damned alternatives-
overworking till we’re aching and empty and depressed and unwell
(and quite frankly, just looking forward to an end)
and then some.
what are we doing this for?
what does this all even mean?
my electives are burnout and imposter syndrome
at every moment I’m just wishing I can go home
but the counsellor tells me that good grades come with a price
so I tell myself to man up as I
pop a couple pills and down them in a can of
recklessness and pure unfiltered caffeine
as I pray to a creature stronger than god,
begging him to not let this kill me
all while promising myself that this is the last time, my
last act of self sacrifice
my degree- the perfect antithesis to a suicide hotline