A Product of Mental Trauma

Im sitting in XY's lecture,
which necessarily is maddeningly dull.
Her opinion on metaphysic poetry
is doggedly resisted by my skull.

Its not just her soporific voice,
which alone can induce quite a coma,
its also Apurva's open lunch box,
and it's mind numbing, stomach clenching aroma.

It doesn't help that said food is two benches away,
annoyingly out of my reach..
that i can smell but not eat it,
makes me want to pull out my hair, and screech..

Meanwhile XY ploughs on,
inciting insanity with innocent ease,
while I struggle to remain coherent, I wonder,
doesn't she KNOW shes causing mass brain freeze?

I survey my classmates' faces,
eyes betraying desperate hope for release,
a maniacal, unspoken call for help-
get XY to stop talking, PLEASE.

Grafitti on my desk negates relinquishment,
supressing hope of any such thing,
its an ode to all those students who died,
waiting for the bell to ring.

At this juncture I'm compelled to admit,
there is certainly a great possibility,
that this mental disembowelling process,
will soon be confirmed by a casualty..

As the overwhelming fingers of unconsciousness,
tighten their grip on my brain,
I succumb to the peace of swooning..
I just cant stand the strain..