The rain drips down my cheeks,

And the wind grows stronger as the voices in my head whirl

They scream that I’m not good enough.

My vision turns to a blur,

disappointment welling with each blink,

staring down at this treacherous letter on this paper makes my inside sour.

Suddenly all ideas of the self-help journey taken all summer

have become a distant memory,

something that used to be fun

but coincidentally seemingly resulted in my becoming dumber.

And the thoughts return,

the same ones every September.

Why worry about the mess of myself I’ve made,

when instead I can focus on my dear, precious grades?

With this constant whirlwind inside of me,

one might think my mother gave birth to her very own hurricane.

- s.n.