College – A Poetry Collection

Mood Music: Koda – Hands

Hey Reader,

I hope you’re doing well. I wrote a set of poems called College, which includes the following poems in order: Coffee, Alcohol, Smoking, Dysphoria. It’s more or less a reflection of my time in college, and the small dark sides of being a student.

This poetry is about being forced to change the kind of person you are while you’re in college, whether it’s to be loved, to find connection, to experience euphoria, to avoid getting eaten away by your own inner demons. This is about trying to live multiple lives at the same time, and feeling all their pain with it.

It isn’t too long of a read. You’ll probably finish by the time the song above is done. As a side note, a lot of the metaphorical content is inspired by one of my favorite music artists, Crywolf.

I’m hoping these poems connect with you to some degree.

Thanks so much, Reader.




Another cup of coffee,

Passes through my hollow shell,

Glass eyes too sensitive to the light,

And stone legs too heavy,

To move and get the 7th cup,

With each coffee cup,

Containing enough sugar,

To crystallize my bloodstreams


Academia’s hungry hand,

Tears through the layers of my skull,

And touches my brain,

With its sticky fingers,

Each with its own mouth,

To drain blood, glucose,

And the leftover sweetness,

Of my exhausted thoughts


Each finger does its job,

The thumb feeds on my grades,

And points downwards,

The index finger points,

At my lack of rest,

The middle finger perks up,

Flipping off my social life,

The ring finger stays bare,

As does my wallet,

And the pinky finger,

Mocks my sex life


An external force receives,

And an internal force gives,

Similar to the worst,

Oral sex you’ve ever had




I started you off with a Sangria,

A cocktail to you is like a panacea,

And if alcohol’s a disinfectant,

Tequila is my purifier,

And if body parts were devices,

Your lips were my humidifier


We turned into those,

Half an hour long lovers,

That you see,

On your shitty Netflix TV shows,

That you hear your friends brag about,

And you secretly want one


You never deny a free drink,

But they’re not actually free,

You pay for today’s drinks,

With tomorrow’s happiness,

Because we were friends,

Turned into lovers,

But it doesn’t work,

The other way around


We texted the next day,

Like we were strangers,

So when you told me,

You don’t remember that night,

I knew you were lying,

Like when you said you love me


Maybe it was a stutter,

But what you meant was,

You only love me,

When you’re drunk




Smoke enters through my metal mouth

And leaves through a stuttered exhale

Its slow burn stinging my glass eyes

And permeating through my bone shell

Like how half and half

Changes a cup of black coffee


She’s standing across from me

Doing the same thing

But I wonder what color

Smoke changes her brain into


We’re having a conversation

About past lovers

Something I’ve talked about many times

But it seems to be her first

And as she speaks

I take her self-esteem

Like it’s currency

And I’m a kleptomaniac


And I’m paying with my lifespan

To lease a perfect emotional moment

Knowing it will disappear

Like drawings on a foggy bus window


But when this is over

It’s gonna hit me

Like a bad dream I can’t remember

Like all the shit that pops up

When you turn on your phone

After its been dead for a while

Everything’s gonna fire

At the same time




The first espresso shot gives me euphoria

In the form of blissful ignorance from all of my usual distractions

Like gum wrappers and the sound of loud keyboards

And loose, sloppy conversations about people I will never meet


The second espresso shot gives me dysphoria

And that blissful ignorance is exchanged

For a violent heartbeat, driving way past the speed limit

But just enough to catch up to my vehicle brain


Third shot, they see me way past the speed limit,

And they try to be steering wheel, brakes, and directions

All at once

And when they crash me, they blame me

Even though they’re living their days in 24 hours

And I’m living my days in 12


Fourth, I become so distracted by my own wreckage

That I become desensitized to life,

I can only focus on piecing together broken glass

That’s here and there, but never together

And I only see parts of my bitter reflection

Through shards of glass that once formed a window


And in the end,

They still blame me for it,

It’s the bad friend who borrows my time and never returns it,

It’s the abusive relationship I can’t get out of,

Because it’s not a disorder,

If you looked in a thesaurus,

There’d be one word:


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